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FAREWELL TO LOVE.

I HAD a heart that doted once in passion's boundless pain,

And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain;

But now that Fancy's fire is quench'd, and ne'er can burn anew,

I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu ! adieu!

I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall,

And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all;

But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching sway

Is now to me a star that's fall'n-a dream that's pass'd away.

Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll,

How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul !

The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner quit its shore,

Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o’er.

Why say they Angels feel the flame ?-Oh, spirits of the skies!

Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?—

Ah no! the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell,

That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell.

1830.

LINES

ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.

In the deep blue of eve,

Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,

Or the lark took his leave

Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

I climb❜d to yon heights,

Where the Norman encamp'd him of old,
With his bowmen and knights,

And his banner all burnish'd with gold.

At the Conqueror's side

There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,
In pavilion wide;

And they chaunted the deeds of Roland.

Still the ramparted ground
With a vision my fancy inspires,
And I hear the trump sound,
As it marshal'd our Chivalry's sires.

On each turf of that mead

Stood the captors of England's domains,

That ennobled her breed

And high-mettled the blood of her veins.

Over hauberk and helm

As the sun's setting splendour was thrown,
Thence they look'd o'er a realm-
And to-morrow beheld it their own.

[The preceding "Lines

were composed in the year 1831, and their subject (to use the poet's own words) "is a spot of ground, not far from the Castle of Hastings, on which I have ascertained, by a comparison of histories, the camp of William the Conqueror must have been placed the evening before he defeated Harold."]

LINES ON POLAND.

AND have I lived to see thee sword in hand
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land!—
Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind,
And leaves the tri-color in shade behind;
A theme for uninspired lips too strong;
That swells my heart beyond the power of song:-
Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith,
Ah! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath :
Whilst envying bosoms, bared to shot and steel,
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel.

Poles! with what indignation I endure

Th' half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor;
Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief,
Who hates, but dares not chide, th' Imperial
Thief?

France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall,
And Germany that has no soul at all,—
States, quailing at the giant overgrown,
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone!
No, ye are rich in fame e'en whilst ye bleed:
We cannot aid you-we are poor indeed!

In Fate's defiance-in the world's great eye,
Poland has won her immortality;

The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, Could not tear Glory's garland from her brow; Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renown'd, And all her ashes will be holy ground!

But turn, my soul, from presages so dark:
Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark
That's fann'd by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's

rage:

She, like the eagle, will renew her age,

And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on,———
Another Athens after Marathon,-

Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine,
Bright as her arms that now in battle shine.
Come-should the heavenly shock my life destroy,
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy;

Come but the day when Poland's fight is won--
And on my grave-stone shine the morrow's

sun

The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow
With endless ensigns ravish'd from the foe,—
Her woman lifting their fair hands with thanks,
Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks,
The 'scutcheon'd walls of high heraldic boast,
The odorous altars' elevated host,

The organ sounding through the aisles' long glooms,

The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs;

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