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For that wild vacancy of thought,
Her cold repulse in ALBERT wrought;
That vacancy, whose deadly chill
Makes ope the breast to good, or ill-
To aught, will rouse, and warm, and fill;
There were a fearful reckoning here,
Might teach the light coquette to fear.

But, votary too of that fond pride,
To virtue, and to vice, allied;
That pride, which ever still is glowing
With o'erstrain'd, o'ersublimed good,
With wild, romantic rectitude,
To truth and good alike unowing;
Yet, sinking still far, far below
The pure plain dues to both we owe,
He roams, at last its victim, where
Destruction, gapes, and fiends ensnare.

For when upon that fated night,
He wandered 'neath the soft moonlight,
And sudden at that village stood,
Where forms, for earth too fair and good,
Had wrapt the holy morning hour

In dreams that spoke but fancy's power,
And only led where crime and ill

Had warped, and won, and claim him still;
-Some ready demon stings his rest;
Some maniac fury fills his breast;

And that same tube, whose dreadful aim
Has tinged his soul with murder's shame,
He lifts-he rears his anguished brow
To heaven-but not with holy vow-
"Tis done!-and what is ALBERT now?

Proud sacrifice to proud remorse,
No hallowed mound may deck his corse;
But rustic to the traveller tell

The cross-road, where he lies-and fell.


Suggested by the approach of Soldiers.

Hark! hark! 'tis the bugle-note, swelling from far-
And the clang of the trumpet-from squadrons advancing!
-How repeat the prond strains all the glories of war!
While the banners wide wave, and the plumes are all

List! the sprightly fife and drum
Nearer still, and nearer come:
Cymbals, mingling clash and ring,
Beating to the soldiers' tread;
Swords, that meteor-flashes fling,
Gleaming o'er each horseman's head:

Now, O! now, the tide of story
Memory bids in floods to roll!
Now our fathers' deeds of glory

Fill the thought, and fire the soul!

Swift as pass the tramping lines,
Fancy glows, and, panting, turns:
Distant soon the pageant shines-
Still she muses, still she burns.
-Hark! that roar-the rushing fight!-
Battling armies are in sight!

See! 'tis Albion's fire that glows! ¡

See! 'tis Gallia dares oppose!

Sons of Albion! Britons! on!

Hurl your ardour on the foe!

Rout their legions!-Joy!-'tis done!

Sons of Albion! mercy shew.

-Cease, cease, my flushed bosom, these dreams of the battle!

O! canst thou see joy in the war-tempest's rattle?
And canst thou exult in the red tide that flows
With the blood of thy brethren-or e'en of thy foes?
Say, shouldst thou not rather, with awe-restrained breath,
Contemplate in tears the wild congress of death?
Ah! shouldst thou not weep and lament to the cry
Of the vanquished and wounded that groan and that die?

Furl, furl the proud ensigns, that float o'er the plain;
Nor clot the green turf with the gore of the slain:
And bare not the steel, with its meteor-like rays,
Affrighting still ether, terrific that plays;

For mine eye can no longer delight in its blaze.

For now-O, list!-sad moans the breeze,
From the battle-field afar:

And there, amid the ensanguined slain,
In far-strewn heaps that press the plain,
I see, I see pale Horror stand,
Aghast, and mute,-then lift her hand,
And dart with shuddering haste to seize
The withered wreath of War.

And, hark! again! the battle-breeze, whose swell
Sighs o'er the field the warrior's woes to tell.
It tells that the sunbeams, so brilliant that played
On the falchions and helms of the gay cavalcade;
Of the banners and plumes that emblazoned the pride,
Shone as bright on the arms of the thousands that died.
It tells that those beams fell as clear on the day,
When the warrior slept on his death-bed of clay :-
And again sighs the breeze, as oppressed with the groans,
Which the voice of the dying had mixed with its moans.

Ah! long by the hearth of the warrior's home,
His children shall listen, and wish he were come;

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And his wife heave the sigh;-but the warrior no more
The threshold shall tread of his own humble door:

No more let such wish to each bosom be dear,
No more in each eye let it combat the tear.
Bereft of the soldier, whose arm was your stay,
Now sorrow shall press on the future's dark way;
And tears of affliction shall bitterly flow,

And nights of despair shall bring mornings of woe.
When poverty all but denies the raw shed,

And pale want and disease ghastly glare round your bed;
And past hours rise in contrast, alt gay with delight,
Say, what will ye think of the "glorious fight?"
Will ye too exult with the Conqueror?—No!
For his laurels are cypress, his victory woe:
And the trophies ambition so joyous would rear,
Are the widow's lament, and the orphan's lone tear.

These, these are the sorrows, that flow from the battle:
Then heed not, my fond soul, the heroes of story:
And pant not, my bosom, to join the war's rattle;
Nor so proudly beat high with wild visions of glory.


Descriptive of a Night Voyage.

As outward bearing from the bay,

We met the foaming tide;

And the watch-tower blazed, and the shrilly lay, That the night-breeze sang to the parting day,

Freshened o'er ocean wide;

How gaily then our merry men

Their gallant labours plied!

Our vessel's prow

Now high, now low,

And the white surge o'er her side.

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High musing strings the pensive soul,
From each weak terror saves :
Like the billows' unbidden burst and roll,
(Meet image of breast that o'erswells controul,
Nor bends-but breaks-and braves,)

Its thoughts, more wide than ocean-tide,
Mute as its deep-down graves,
On, onward still,

Roam at wild will,

And break like the fragmentless waves.

From the waters' verge the night-orb grew,
And a long, long radiance cast:

And the air was lit, and each billow blue,
As the beauteous light well-pleased it knew,
Right gladly sparkling passed.

How freely now, on moonlight bow,
I breathed the spray-dewed blast!
While the cordage rang,

And the sea-boy sang,

High poised on the creaking mast.

Sleep stills the weltering waters' roar,
To those whom sleep can please:
And soon, too soon, our voyage o'er,
Our bounding bark we safely moor
In the shadowy bay at peace.
Of the land we left though all bereft,
Few lost their spirits' ease:

And a glimpse of the oar,

Or a sail, or the shore,

Sends my thoughts to the moonlight seas.


GLIMMERS now each silvery star,

Sinks each sound upon the gale;

Save the rural bells afar,

From the steeple in the vale.

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