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And thine must ever, ever be.”

But oh! awak’ning still anew,

Athwart my enanguish'd senses flew

A fiercer, deadlier agony ! Art thou indeed for ever gone,

[End of Posthumous Fragments of For ever, ever, lost to me?

Margaret Nicholson.]
Must this poor bosom beat alone,

Or beat at all, if not for thee?
Ah! why was love to mortals given,
To list them to the height of heaven,

Or dash them to the depths of hell ?

TION OF THE MARSEILYet I do not reproach thee, dear!

Ah! no, the agonies that swell

This panting breast, this frenzied Tremble Kings despised of man!

Ye traitors to your Country Might wake my 's slumb’ring Tremble! Your parricidal plan tear.

At length shall meet its destiny
Oh! heaven is witness I did love, We all are soldiers fit to fight
And heaven does know I love thee still, But if we sink in glory's night
Does know the fruitless sick’ning thrill, Our mother Earth will give ye new

When reason's judgment vainly strove | The brilliant pathway to pursue
To blot thee from my memory;

Which leads to Death or Victory
But which might never, never be.
Oh! I appeal to that blest day
When passion's wildest ecstasy

Was coldness to the joys I knew,
When every sorrow sunk away.
Oh! I had never liv'd before,
But now those blisses are no more.

Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons
And now I cease to live again,

of the wind, I do not blame thee love ; ah no!

The lion to rouse from his skull. The breast that feels this anguish'd woe

covered lair ? Throbs for thy happiness alone.

When the tiger approaches can the fastTwo years of speechless bliss are gone,

fleeting hind I thank thee dearest for the dream. Repose trust in his footsteps of air ? 'Tis night-what faint and distant scream No! Abandon'd he sinks in a trance of Comes on the wild and fitful blast ?

despair, It moans for pleasures that are past,

The monster transfixes his prey, It moans for days that are gone by.

On the sand flows his life-blood Oh ! lagging hours how slow you fly!

away; I see a dark and lengthen’d vale,

Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells The black view closes with the tomb;

reply, But darker is the lowering gloom

Protracting the horrible harmony.
That shades the intervening dale.
In visioned slumber for a while
I seem again to share thy smile, Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger
I seem to hang upon thy tone.

Again you say,
"* Confide in me,

Dares fearless to perish defending her For I am thine, and thine alone,


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Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG tyrants approaches,

TO THE GRASS OF A Thirsting—ay, thirsting for blood;

GRAVE And demands, like mankind, his brother for food;

I Yet more lenient, more gentle OH! take the pure gem to where than they;

southerly breezes, For hunger, not glory, the prey Waft repose to some bosom as faithMust perish. Revenge does not howl ful as fair, in the dead.

In which the warm current of love never Nor ambition with fame crown the

freezes, murderer's head.

As it rises unmingled with selfishness


Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted Though weak, as the lama, that bounds by care, on the mountains,

Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might And endued not with fast - fleeting

bid it arise, footsteps of air,

Too pure for these regions, to gleam in

the skies. Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of

II fountains, Though a fiercer than tiger is there.

Or where the stern warrior, his country Though more dreadful than death, it defending, scatters despair,

Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle Though its shadow eclipses the

to pour, day,

Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant And the darkness of deepest

bending, dismay

Where patriotism red with his guiltSpreads the influence of soul-chilling

reeking gore terror around,

Plants liberty's flag on the slaveAnd lowers on the corpses, that rot on

peopled shore, the ground.

With victory's cry, with the shout of

the free,

Let it fly, taintless spirit, to mingle with They came to the fountain to draw from

thee. its stream, Waves too pure, too celestial, for For I found the pure gem, when the mortals to see;

daybeam returning, They bathed for awhile in its silvery Ineffectual gleams on the beam,

covered plain, Then perish'd, and perish'd like me. When to others the wished for arrival of For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot morning I flee;

Brings relief to long visions of soulThe most tenderly loved of my racking pain; soul

But regret is an insult—to grieve is Are slaves to his hated control.


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in vain : He pursues me, he blasts me! 'Tis in And why should we grieve that a spirit

vain that I fly : What remains, but to curse him,--to Seeks Heaven to mix with its own curse him and die ?

kindred there?

so fair


Hast thou ne'er felt a rapturous thrill, But still 'twas some spirit of kindness

Like June's warm breath, athwart

thee fly, descending To share in the load of mortality's O'er each idea then to steal,

When other passions die ? woe, Who over thy lowly built sepulchre Felt it in some wild noonday dream, bending

When sitting by the lonely stream,

Where Silence says, Mine is the dell; Bade sympathy's tenderest teardrop

And not a murmur from the plain, to flow. Not for thee, soft compassion, celes. And not an echo from the fell, tials did know,

Disputes her silent reign. But if angels can weep, sure man may repine,

ON A FÊTE AT CARLTON May weep in mute grief o'er thy low

HOUSE : FRAGMENT laid shrine.

By the mossy brink, With me the Prince shall sit and think;

Shall muse in visioned Regency, And did I then say, for the altar of

Rapt in bright dreams of dawning glory,

Royalty That the earliest, the loveliest of

flowers I'd entwine, Tho' with millions of blood-reeking

TO A STAR victims 'twas gory,

Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the Tho' the tears of the widow polluted darksome scene its shrine,

Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance Tho' around it the orphans, the fliest, fatherless pine ?

Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy Oh! Fame, all thy glories I'd yield for veil, a tear

Which shrouds the day-beam from the To shed on the grave of a heart so waveless lake, sincere.

Lighting the hour of sacred love ; more

sweet LOVE

Than the expiring morn-star's paly fires. Why is it said thou canst not live Sweet star! When wearied Nature In a youthful breast and fair,

sinks to sleep, Since thou eternal life canst give, And all is hushed, -all, save the voice Canst bloom for ever there?

of Love, Since withering pain no power possest, Whose broken murmurings swell the Nor age, to blanch thy vermeil hue,

balmy blast Nor time's dread victor, death, con Of soft Favonius, which at intervals fess'd,

Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou Though bathed with his poison dew, aught but Still thou retain'st unchanging bloom, Lulling the slaves of interest to repose Fix'd tranquil, even in the tomb. With that mild, pitying gaze! Oh, I And oh! when on the blest reviving

would look The day-star dawns of love,

In thy dear beam till every bond of Each energy of soul surviving More vivid, soars above,

Became enamoured





She was a cripple, and incapable To add one mite to gold-fed luxury : And therefore did her spirit dimly

feel That poverty, the crime of tainting

stain, Would merge her in its depths, never

to rise again.

MAIDEN, quench the glare of sorrow Struggling in thine haggard eye :

Firmness dare to borrow From the wreck of destiny ; For the ray morn's bloom revealing Can never boast so bright an hue

As that which mocks concealing, And sheds its loveliest light on you.

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Yet is the tie departed Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss ?

Has it left thee broken-hearted In a world so cold as this !

Yet, though, fainting fair one, Sorrow's self thy cup has given,

Dream thou'lt meet thy dear one, Never more to part, in heaven.

One only son's love had supported her. She long had struggled with in

firmity, Lingering to human life-scenes ; for

to die, When fate has spared to rend some

mental tie, Would many wish, and surely fewer

dare. But, when the tyrant's bloodhounds

forced the child For his cursed power unhallowed

arms to wieldBend to another's will become a

thing More senseless than the sword of

battlefieldThen did she feel keen sorrow's

keenest sting; And many years had passed ere comfort

they would bring.


Existence would I barter
For a dream so dear as thine,

And smile to die a martyr
On affection's bloodless shrine.

Nor would I change for pleasure That withered hand and ashy cheek,

If my heart enshrined a treasure Such as forces thine to break.





She was an aged woman ; and the years Which she had numbered on her toil

some way Had bowed her natural powers to

decay. She was an agèd woman; yet the ray Which faintly glimmered through her

starting tears, Pressed into light by silent misery, Hath soul's imperishable energy.

For seven years did this poor woman

live In unparticipated solitude. Thou mightst have seen her in the

forest rude Picking the scattered remnants of

its wood. If human, thou mightst then have

learned to grieve. The gleanings of precarious charity Her scantiness of food did scarce

supply. The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow

dwelt Within her ghastly hollowness of eye:




Each arrow of the season's change When thou canst feel such love, thou she felt.

shalt be great as they ! Yet still she groans, ere yet her race

were run, One only hope : it was-once more to

Her son, compelled, the country's

foes had fought, see her son.

Had bled in battle ; and the stern

control It was an eve of June, when every star

Which ruled his sinews and coerced Spoke peace from heaven to those his soul on earth that live.

Utterly poisoned life's unmingled She rested on the moor. 'Twas

bowl, such an eve

And unsubduable evils him When first her soul began indeed brought. to grieve :

He was the shadow of the lusty child Then he was here ; now he is very far.

Who, when the time of summer season The sweetness of the balmy evening

smiled, A sorrow o'er her agèd soul did fling,

Did earn for her a meal of honesty, Yet not devoid of rapture's mingled

And with affectionate discourse be. tear :

guiled A balm was in the poison of the sting.

The keen attacks of pain and This agèd sufferer for many a year

poverty ; Had never felt such comfort. She

Till Power, as envying her this only suppressed

joy, A sigh- and turning round, clasped From her maternal bosom tore the William to her breast !

unhappy boy.


And now cold charity's unwelcome And, though his form was wasted by

dole the woe

Was insufficient to support the pair ; Which tyrants on their victims love

And they would perish rather than to wreak,

would bear Though his sunk eyeballs and his

The laws stern slavery, and the faded cheek

insolent stare Of slavery's violence and scorn did

With which law loves to rend the speak,

poor man's soulYet did the agèd woman's bosom

The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking glow.

noise The vital fire seemed reillumed

Of heartless mirth which women, within

men, and boys, By this sweet unexpected welcoming. Wake in this scene of legal misery. Oh, consummation of the fondest

hope That ever soared on fancy's wildest


NORTH AMERICA Oh, tenderness that found'st so

sweet a scope ! Prince who dost pride thee on thy BROTHERS ! between you and me mighty sway,

Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar :

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