Once Fortune’s minion, now thou feel’st her power;
Wrath’s vial on thy lofty head bath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose!
But thou went smitten with th’ unhallow’d thirst
Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.
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Must thou go, my glorious Chief,
Who can tell thy warrior’s grief,Maddening o’er that long adieu?Woman’s love, and friendship’s zeal,Dear as both have been to meWhat are they to all I feel,With a soldier’s faith for thee?Idol of the soldier’s soul!First in fight, but mightiest now;Many could a world control;Thee alone no doom can bow.By thy side for years I daredDeath;…
No specious splendour of this stone
With lustre only once it shone,And blushes modest as the giver.Some, who can sneer at friendship’s ties,Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me;Yet still the simple gift I prize,-For I am sure the giver loved me.He offer’d it with downcast look,As fearful that I ,ight refuse it;I told him when the gift I took,My only…
Ah!–What should follow slips from my reflection;
As à-propos of hope or retrospection,As though the lurking thought had follow’d free.All present life is but an interjection,An ‘Oh!’ or ‘Ah!’ of joy or misery,Or a ‘Ha! ha!’ or ‘Bah!’– a yawn, or ‘Pooh!’Of which perhaps the latter is most true.But, more or less, the whole’s a syncopeOr a singultus – emblems of emotion,The…
‘Tis done—and shivering in the gale
And whistling o’er the bending mast,Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;And I must from this land be gone,Because I cannot love but one.But could I be what I have been,And could I see what I have seen—Could I repose upon the breastWhich once my warmest wishes blest—I should not seek another zone,Because I cannot…
Dear object of defeated care!
To reconcile me with despair,Thing image and any tears are left.‘Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope;But this I feel can ne’er be true:For by the death?blow of my HopeMy Memory immortal grew.Athens, January 1811.
How sweetly shines through azure skies,
Where Alva’s hoary turrets rise,And hear the din of arms no more!But often has yon rolling moonOn Alva’s casques of silver play’d;And view’d at midnight’s silent noon,Her chief’s in gleaming mail array’d:And on the crimson’d rocks beneath,Which scowl o’er ocean’s sullen flow,Pale in the scatter’d runks of death,She saw the gasping warrior low;While many an…