"Down, down, insulting ship," she cried, "So perish ye for Nelson's blood,- LINES WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. Он, death! if there be quiet in thine arms, And I must cease-gently, oh, gently come, To me! and let my soul learn no alarms, But strike me, ere a shriek can echo, dumb, Senseless, and breathless.-And thou, sickly life, If the decree be writ, that I must die, Do thou be guilty of no needless strife. Nor pull me downwards to mortality, When it were fitter I should take a flightBut whither? Holy Pity, hear, oh hear! And lift me to some far-off skyey sphere, Where I may wander in celestial light: Might it be so-then would my spirit fear To quit the things I have so loved, when seenThe air, the pleasant sun, the summer green,Knowing how few would shed one kindly tear, Or keep in mind that I had ever been! LINES ON THE STATE OF GREECE, OCCASIONED BY BEING PRESSED TO MAKE TA IN Greece's cause the Muse, you deem, That wakens thought too deep for song? The Christian world has seen you, Greeks, The world has heard your widows' shrieks, Even England brooks that, reeking hot, Oh! if we have nor hearts nor swords Insult your pale and prostrate land. No! be your cause to England now, To see her unavenging ships Ride fast by Greece's funeral pile, 'Tis worth a curse from Sibyl lips! "Tis matter for a demon's smile! LINES ON JAMES IV. OF SCOTLAND, WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 'TWAS he that ruled his country's heart But Scotland saw her James depart, She heard his fate-she wept her grief- But this she learnt, that, ere he fell, When kings are patriots, none will fly- TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE, THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES. ADIEU, romance's heroines! Give me the nymphs, who this good hour My harp, that has been mute too long, In whose benignant eyes are beaming Such as we fancy woman's seeming, Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted Till I had grouped you as the graces- The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him; Unseal'd by you, these lips have spoken, Ye've tuned a harp whose strings were broken, And warm'd a heart of callous clay; So, when my fancy next refuses SONG. "Tis now the hour-'t is now the hour Now, whilst our hearts confess the power And beaming eyes look on so bright, In such an hour-in such an hour, While pleasure's fount throws up a shower Why does my bosom heave the sigh There was an hour-there was an hour That love wound round me with a power Though love has fill'd my chequer'd doom Yet there's an hour-there's still an hour Clear from the clouds that hang and lour That hour of hours beloved will be That hou. that gives thee back to me! |