His band are plunging in the bay, Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, For her his eye but sought in vain? Sad proof, in peril and in pain, Whose bullet through the night-air sang, Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling If aught his lips essay'd to groan, Morn slowly rolls the clouds away; Few trophies of the fight are there: The shouts that shook the midnight-bay Are silent; but some signs of fray That strand of strife may bear, And fragments of each shiver'd brand Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand The print of many a struggling hand May there be mark'd; nor far remote T is rent in twain--one dark-red stain O'er which their hungry beaks delay, That hand, whose motion is not life, Within a living grave? The bird that tears that prostrate form Yea-closed before his own! The worm that will not sleep-and never dies; Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, That winds around, and tears the quivering heart! Ah! wherefore not consume it-and depart! Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread: By that same hand Abdallah-Selim: bled. Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief. Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Ŏsman's bed, She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, Thy Daughter's dead! Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. What quench'd its ray ?-the blood that thou hast shed! Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: "Where is my child?"-an Echo answers-Where?" Within the place of thousand tombs That shine beneath, while dark above The sad but living cypress glooms And withers not, though branch and leaf Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, Like early unrequited Love, Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: And yet, though storms and blight assail, And hands more rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem-in vainTo-morrow sees it bloom again: The stalk some spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears, For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And buds unshelter'd by a bower; Nor droops though Spring refuse ber shower, Nor woos the summer beam: But soft as harp that Houri strings It were the Bulbul; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain : For they who listen cannot leave And yet so sweet the tears they shed, And longer yet would weep and wake, But when the day-blush bursts from high Expires that magic melody. And some have been who could believe, (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, Yet harsh be they that blame,) That note so piercing and profound Will shape and syllable its sound Into Zuleika's name. 'Tis from her cypress summit heard, And hence extended by the billow, Where first it lay that mourning lower Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour, Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale: As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale! November, 1813. November 29, 1813. ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE "Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo Invenies?"-Juvenal, Sat. x. "T IS done-but yesterday a King! And arm'd with Kings to strive The triumph and the vanity, To thee the breath of life; All quell'd!-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? To die a prince-or live a slave- He who of old would rend the oak, And darker fate hast found: The Roman, when his burning heart He dared depart in utter scorn The Spaniard,1 when the lust of sway A strict accountant of his beads, His dotage trifled well: Yet better had he neither known But thou-from thy reluctant hand Too late thou leav'st the high command To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And thank'd him for a throne! In humblest guise have shown. If thou hadst died as honor dies, To shame the world again— Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust To all that pass away: 1 The Emperor Charles V Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride; How bears her 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 Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem! Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, That element may meet thy smile- That Earth is now as free! Thou Timour! in his captive's cage What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison'd rage? But one-" The world was mine!" Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, Life will not long confine That spirit pour'd so widely forthSo long obey'd-so little worth! Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, There was a day--there was an hour, Had been an act of purer fame 1 Dionysius the younger, tyrant of Syracuse, who after his second banishment earned his living by teaching, in Corinth. But thou forsooth must be a king, Where may the wearied eye repose Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To inake man blush there was but one! April 9-10, 1814. April 16, 1814. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, But tell of days in goodness spent, OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN OH! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, |