Sons of perdition, speed your flight.
No earthly spear is in the rest;
No earthly champion leads to fight
The warriors of the West.

The Lord of Hosts asserts His old renown,
Scatters, and smites, and slays, and tramples down.
Fast, fast, beyond what mortal tongue can say,
Or mortal fancy dream,

He rushes on his prey :

Till, with the terrors of the wondrous theme

Bewildered and appalled, I cease to sing,

And close my dazzled eye, and rest my wearied wing.

THE LAST BUCCANEER. (1839.)

THE winds were yelling, the waves were swelling,

The sky was black and drear,

When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship with

out a name

Alongside the last Buccaneer.

"Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas?

Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador,
Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees ? "

"From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound,

Without rudder or needle we steer;

Above, below, our bark, dies the sea fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer.

"To night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde

A loud crash, and a louder roar;

And to-morrow shall the deep, with a heavy moaning, sweep

The corpses and wreck to the shore."

The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride

In the breath of the citron shades;

And Severn's towering mast securely now flies fast,
Through the sea of the balmy Trades.

From St. Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal fort, The seaman goes forth without fear;

For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight Of the flag of the last Buccaneer.

EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE. (1845.)

To my true king I offered free from stain
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
For him I languished in a foreign clime,
Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime ;
Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
Each morning started from the dream to weep;
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
The resting place I asked, an early grave.

Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
From that proud country which was once mine own,
By those white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

LINES WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1847.

THE day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er;
Worn out with toil, and noise, and scorn, and spleen,
I slumbered, and in slumber saw once more
A room in an old mansion, long unseen.

That room, methought, was, curtained from the light; Yet through the curtains shone the moon's cold ray Full on a cradle, where, in linen white,

Sleeping life's first soft sleep, an infant lay.

Pale flickered on the hearth the dying flame,
And all was silent in that ancient hall,
Save when by fits on the low night-wind came
The murmur of the distant waterfall.

And lo! the fairy queens who rule our birth
Drew nigh to speak the new born baby's doom:
With noiseless step, which left no trace on earth,
From gloom they came, and vanished into gloom.

Not deigning on the boy a glance to cast

Swept careless by the gorgeous Queen of Gain; More scornful still, the Queen of Fashion passed, With mincing gait and sneer of cold disdain.