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PO E T R Y.

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS

LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME.

By THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell
Beside your cannons conquer'd not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well
For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain;
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, aye embrace your martyr'd lot,
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallow'd ground, than priests could make the spot !
What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast
In dungeons---dragg'd to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast
The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowld Demons of the Inquisitorial cell !
Earth shudders at your victory,--for ye
Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of hell !

Go to your bloody rites again-bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men;
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your

den
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers ! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No

eye may search no tongue may challenge or reveal !

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors !—Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty ;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-shew her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause !
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:-
No !--manglers of the martyr's earthly frame!
Your hangman-fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

By THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians !
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ;
Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree
It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves
May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves.
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances
Are stretch'd in our aid.be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone :
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins,
That living, we shall be victorious,
Or, that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the
vengeance

of
ages

has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide-waves engulph--fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves ;
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us.
To the charge ! --Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory.
Our women, Oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accurs'd niay

his

memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken
Till we've trampled the turban and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean ;
Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow, their Helicon's spring:
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms,
When the blood of yon

Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

À DREAM.

By THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.

Well may sleep present us fictions,

Since our waking moments teem
With such fanciful convictions

As make life itself a dream.
Half our daylight faith's a fable ;

Sleep disports with shadows too,
Seeming in their turn as stable

As the world we wake to view.
Ne'er by day did Reason's mint

Give my thoughts a clearer print
VOL. LXVII.

T*

Of assured reality,
Than was left by Phantasy
Stamp'd and colour'd on my sprite
In a dream of yesternight.

In a bark, methought, lone steering,

I was cast on Ocean's strife;
This, 'twas whisper'd in my hearing,

Meant the sea of Life.
Sad regrets from past existence

Came, like gales of chilling breath ;
Shadow'd in the forward distance

Lay the land of Death.
Now seeming more, now less remote,
On that dim-seen shore, methought
I beheld two hands a space
Slow unshroud a spectre's face;
And my flesh's hair upstood-
'Twas mine own similitude.

But my soul revived at seeing

Ocean, like an emerald spark, Kindle, while an air-dropt being

Smiling steer'd my bark.
Heaven-like-yet he look'd as human

As supernal beauty can,
More compassionate than woman,

Lordly more than man.
And as some sweet clarion's breath
Stirs the soldier's scorn of death
So his accents bade me brook
The spectre's eyes of icy look,
Till it shut them-turn’d its head,
Like a beaten foe, and fled.

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Tell my

• Types not this,” I said, “ fair Spirit'

That my death-hour is not come? Say, what days shall I inherit ?

soul their sum.” “ No,” he said, “yon phantom's aspect,

Trust me, would appal thee worse, Held in clearly-measured prospect :

Ask not for a curse ! Make not, for I overhear Thine unspoken thoughts as clear As thy mortal ear could catch The close-brought tickings of a watchMake not the untold request That's now revolving in thy breast.

“ 'Tis to live again, remeasuring

Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed,
In thy second life-time treasuring

Knowledge from the first.
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver !

Life's career so void of pain,
As to wish its fitful fever

New begun again?
Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine-
Threads by Fate together spun ?
Could thy flight heaven's lightning shun?
No, nor could thy foresight's glance
Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.

“Would'st thou bear again Love's trouble

Friendship's death.dissevered ties;
Toil to grasp or miss the bubble

Of Ambition's prize?
Say thy life's new-guided action

Flow'd from Virtue's fairest springs-
Still, would Envy and Detraction

Double not their stings?
Worth itself is but a charter
To be mankind's distinguished martyr.”
- I caught the moral, and cried, “ Hail,
Spirit ! let us onward sail
Envying, fearing, hating none,
Guardian Spirit, steer me on!”

THE TEMPLE OF VESTA.

Newdigale Prize Poem for 1825.

By RICHARD CLARKE SEWELL, of Magdalen College, Oxford.

The dark pine waves on Tiber's classic steep,
From rock to rock the headlong waters leap,
Tossing their foam on high, till leaf and flower
Glitter, like emeralds, in the sparkling shower:
Lovely--but lovelier from the charms that glow
Where Latium spreads her purple vales below;
The olive, smiling on the sunny hill,
The golden orchard, and the ductile rill,
the spring clear-bubbling in its rocky font,
The moss-grown cave, the Naiad's fabled haunt,
And, far as eye can strain, yon shadowy dome,
The glory of the earth, Eternal Rome.

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