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That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remember d well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays ;
A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant-clear-but, oh how cold!



WERE my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be,
I need not have wanderd from far Galilee;
It was but abjuring my creed to efface
The curse which, thou sayest, is the crime of

my race.

. If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee! If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free! If the exile on earth is an outcast on high, Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know; In his hand is my heart and my hope-and in thine The land and the life which for him I resign.


Oh, Mariamne! now for thee

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony,

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. Oh, Mariamne! where art thou ?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : Ah, couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now,

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. And is she dead ?--and did they dare

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving?
My wrath but doom'd my own despair :

The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving: But thou art cold, my murder d love!

And this dark heart is vainly craving For her who soars alone above,

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. She's gone, who shared


diadem! She sunk, with her my joys entombing : I swept that flower from Judali's stem

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming. And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,

This boson's desolation dooming: And I have earn'd those tortures well,

Which unconsumed are still consuming

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed
Nad reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away:
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!
But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jebovalı disdaind not to reign;
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be,
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.


We sat down and wept by the waters

Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,

Made Salem's higle places his prey;
And ye, oh lier desolate daughters!

Were scatter'd all weeping away.
While sadly we gazed on the river

Which roll'd on in freedorn below,
They demanded the song; but, oli never

That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be wither'd for ever,

Erc it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended, -

Ob Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended,

But left me that token of thee :
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended

With the voice of the spoiler by me!

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold: And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That lost with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest whieu autumn hath blosa, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, Aud breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the

eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chull, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew sull. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, liut Girough it there roll'd not the breath of his pride And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, ind cold as the spray of the rock-bearing surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew ou bois brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trunpet uablowa. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the swort. liath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord'



From the last bill that looks on thy once holy dome
I beheld thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome :
'T was they last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flashid back on the last glince I give to thy wall.
I lookd for thy temple, I look u for my home,
And forgot for a moment ny bondage to come;
I belield but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain.

FROM JOB. A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld The face of immortality unveild; Deep sleep came down on every eye save mineAnd there it stood, -all formless—but divine · Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake :

« Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
Than he who deems even seraphs insecure ?
Creatures of clay! vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Needless and blind to wisdom's wasted light !»

Miscellaneous Poems.




• Expende Annibalem :--quot libras in duce summo Invenies !


• The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues and military talents were loudly celebrated ; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of publie felicity.

By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an emperor and an exile, till

GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi, p. 220.

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 'T is done—but yesterday a king!

And arm d with kings to striveAnd now thou art a nameless thing

So abject-yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones ?

And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
Ill-minded man! wliy scourge thy kind,

Who bow'd so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,

Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestion d, -power to save-
Thine only gift hath been the grave

To those that worshipp'd thee;
Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness !
Thanks for that lesson-it will teach

To after-warriors more
Than bigh philosophy can preach,

And vainly preachid before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,

That led them to adore
Those pagod things of sabre-sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife-
The earthquake shout of Victory,

To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,

Wherewith renown was rife ---
All quelld! —Dark spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!
The desolator desolate!

The victor overthrown! The arbiter of others' fate

A suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?

Or dread of death alone ?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!
Bez who of old would rend the oak

Dream'd not of the rebound;
Chain'd by the trunk he rainly broke,-

Alone- how look'd be round ?-
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!
The Roman,3 when his burning heart

Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger-dared depart,

In savage grandeur, home.
He dared depart, in ulter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,

Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.
The Spaniard, 4 when the last of sway

Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,

An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,

His dotage trifled well :

"Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila, in bis barangae to his army, previous 10 the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus.

Milo. 1 Sylla. 4 Cbarles V.

Yet better liad he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But thou—from thy reluctant hand

The thunderbolt is wrungi
Too late thou leavest the high command

To which thy weakness clung:
All evil spirit as thou art,
It is enough 10 grieve the heart,

To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean;
And earth hath spilt her blood for him,

Who thus can hoard his own!
And monarchs bow'd the trembliug limb,

And thank'd him for a throne !
Fair freedom! we may bold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest focs their fear

In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! pc'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind !
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,

Nor written thus in vain
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,

Or deepen every stain.
If thou hadat died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,

To share the world again
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?
Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust

Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, mortality! are just

To all that pass away;
But yet, methought, the living great
Some bigher sparks should animate,

To dazzle and dismay;
Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirih
Of these, the conquerors of the carth.
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,

Thy still imperial bride;
llow bears hier breast the torturing hour?

Still clings she to thy side ?
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless liomicide?
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,
'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem!
Then baste thee to thy sullen isle,

And yaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile,

It neer was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering inood, upon the sand,

That carth is now as free!
That Corinthi's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cace'

What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage?

But onc--«The world was mine.»

Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sease is with thy sceptre gone,

Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!
Or like the thief of fire from heaven,'

Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,

Nis vulture and his rock?
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,

The very fiend's arch mock;?
Ile in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !





WIEN the last sun-shine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps


away, Who hath not felt the softness of the hour Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes, While Nature makes that melancholy pause Her breathing inoment on the bridge where Time Of light and darkocss forms ao arch sublime, Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, The voiceless thought which would not speak but weer, A holy concord and a bright regret,

glorious sympathy with suns that set?
"T is not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness, but full and clear,
A sweet dejection-a iransparent tear,
l'nmix'd with worldly grief or sellishı stain,
Sued without shame, and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils
Wien summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and

When all of genius which can perish dies.
A mighty spirit is eclipsed-a power
Vath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeatl'd-no vame,
Focus at once of all the rays of fame!
The tlash of wit-the bright intelligence,
The beam of song-the blaze of eloquence,
Set with their sun n-but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal Minds
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,

A deathless part of him who died too soon,
. But small that portion of the wondrous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circliog soal.
Which all embraced-and lightend over all,
To cheer-to pierce-10 please or to appal.
Trom the charm'd council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ;
In wbose acclaim the loftiest voices vied,
The praised--the proud-who made his praise their price

I Prometheus.

The fiend's arch mock-
Tolip a wanton, and suppose her chaste..


The te of Rajazrt, ts order of Tamerlane.


When the loud cry of trampled flindostan'

Ye orators! whom yet our councils yield, Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,

Mouro for the veteran hero of your field! His was the thunder-bis the avenging rod,

The worthy rival of the wondrous Three!
The wrath-the delegated voice of God!

Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Which shook the nations through his lips--and blazed Ye bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. He was your master--emulate him here!
And here, oh! here, where, yet all young and warm,

Ye men of wit and social eloquence!
The gay creations of his spirit charm,

He was your brother-bear his ashes hence! The matchless dialogue--the deathless wit,

While powers of mind almost of boundless range, Which knew not what it was to intermit;

Complete in kind-as various in their change, The glowing portraits, fresh from life that bring

While eloquence-wit--poesy—and mirth, Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;

That humbler harmonist of care on earth, These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought

Survive within our souls-while lives our sense To fulness by the fiat of his thought,

Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence, Here in their first abode you still may meet,

Long shall we seek his likeness—long in vain, Bright with the hues of his Promethean heal;

And turn to all of him which may remain, A halo of the light of other days,

Sighing that Nature form d but one such map,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.

Ind broke the die-in moulding Sheridan!
But should there be to whom the fatal blight
Of failing wisdom yields a base delight,

Men who exult when minds of beavenly tone
Jar in the music which was born their own,

Ens the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know

And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, That what to them seem'd vice might be but woe.

Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze

To the long-cherish'd Isle which he loved like his-Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise;

bride. Repose denies her requiem to his name,

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. The secret enemy whose sleepless eye

The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause Stands sentinel-accuser-judge—and spy,

For the few little years, out of centuries won, The foe-the fool- the jealous—and the vain,

Which betray d not, or crush'd not, or wept not her The envious who but breathe in others' pain, Behold the host ! delighting to deprave,

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, Who track the steps of glory to the grave,

The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more, Watch every fault that daring genius owes

And the famine, which dwelt on her freedomless crags Walf to the ardour which its birth bestows,

Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,
And pile the pyramid of calumny!

To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands These are his portion-but if join'd to these

For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease,

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, If the high spirit must forget to soar,

For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. And stoop to strive with misery at the door, To soothe indignity--and face to face

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! Meet sordid rage--and wrestle with disgrace,

Like a goodly Leviathan rolla from the waves ! To find in hope but the renew'd caress,

Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, The serpent-fold of further faithlessness,

With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! If such may be the ills wbich men assail,

He comes in the promise and bloom of three-score, What marvel if at last the mightiest fail?

To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBreasts to whom all the strength of feeling given

But long live the Shamrock which shadows him o'er! Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from heaven,

Could the Green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart! Black with the rude collision, inly torn, By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst

And a new spring of noble affections ariseThoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorch-and | Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, burst.

And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. But far from us and from our mimic scene

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee bow? Such things should be-if such have ever been;

Were he God--as he is but the commonest clay, Ours be the gender wish, the kinder task,

With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his browTo give the tribute Glory need not ask,

Such servile devotion might shame him away. To mourn the vanish'd beam- and add our mite of praise in payment of a long delight.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash Sce Fox, Barke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr Sheridan's speech on the

Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-charges ohibited against Mr Hastings in the House of Commons. Not thus did thy GRATTAN indignantly flash Mr Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer

(lis soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. consideration of the question than could theu occur after tbe immediato effect of that oration.

Fox, Pitt, Barke.


Till now,

Ever-glorious GRATTAN! the best of the good!

So simple in lieart, so sublime in the rest! With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued,

And his rival or victor in all lie possess'd.

when the Isle which should blush for his birth, Deep, deep, as the gore which he shed on her soil, Seems proud of the reptile which crawl from her earth,

And for murder repays him with shouts and a sinile!
Without one single ray of her genius, without

The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race-
The miscreant who well might plunge Erix in doubi,

If she ever gave birth to a being so base.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun-
But GRATTAN sprung up like a god from the comb

the first, last, the saviour, the One!

their prey?

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; If she did - let her long-boasted proverb be hushid,

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankiud; Which proclaims that from ERIN no reprile can Eveu Tyranny listening sate inelied or mute,

springAnd Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush d, his mind.

Still warming its folds in the breast of a king! But back to our theme! back to despots and slaves! Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how los

Feasts furnishi'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves, Thy welcome of tyralis hath plunged thee below

When a week's Saturnalia bath loosen'd her chain, The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulpla still. Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afforit My vcice, though but humble, was raised for the righi, (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would bide;

My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord!

This band, though but focble, would arm, in thy fight, Kiss his foot with thy blessings denied!

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb sull

for thee! Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, If the Idol of Brass find his feet are of clay,

Yes, I loved thice and thinc, though thou art not my Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd

land; With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yicle I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy -00,

And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign,

Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. To reign! in that word see, ye ages, coinpriscil For happy are they now reposing afar,The cause of the curses all annals contain,

Thy Grattan, thy Cunnan, thy SHERIDAN, al From Cesar the dreaded, to George the despised! Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war,

And redeemd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'CONNELL, proclaim His accomplishments! llis!!! and thy country con Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! vince

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day, Half an age's contempt was an error of Fame,

Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves And that«lalis the rascaliest sweetest young Prince!» Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recal

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, The felters from millions of Catholic limbs?

Thonslı their virtues were hunted, their liberties ticu, Or, las it not bound thee the fastest of all

There was something so warm and sublune in the core The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymnis ?

Of au Irishnan's heart, that I envy-thy dead. Ay! « Build him a dwelling!» let each give his mite!

Or, if auglit in my bosom can quench for an hour Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen!

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Let thy beggars and Helots their piltance unite

Which though frod like the worm will not turn upou And a palace bestow for a poor-bouse and prison!


"T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast,

Sept. 16th, 1821.
Till the gluttonous despot be stuft to the gorge!
Ind the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at list

The Fourth of the fools and oppressors calld«GEORGE!»
Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groun! Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,

Till they groan like thy people, clarough ages of woe! I boundary between the things miswamed Let the wine llow around the old Bacchanals thrope, Death and cristence: sleep bath its own world, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yei las Sud a wide realm of wild reality, to flow.

And dreams in their developement have breath,

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; But let not his name be thine idol alone

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, On his right hand behold a SEJAnus appears! They take a weijlit from off our waking toils, Thine own CASTLEREAGII! let himn soill be thine own! They do divide our being; they become

wretch, never named but withe curses and jerry! ! portion of ourselves as of our time,

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