Where then had been the long renown
France can from sire to son deliver ?
Where English freedom rolling down,
One widening, one continuous river?
Think with what passionate delight
The tale was told in Christian halls,
How Sobieski turned to flight
The Moslem from Vienna's walls :
How, when his horse triumphant trod
The burgher's richest robes upon,
The ancient words rose loud-" From God
A man was sent whose name was John."
Think not that time can ever give
Prescription to such doom as ours,
That Grecian hearts can ever live
Contented serfs of barbarous powers: More than six hundred years had passed Since Moorish hosts could Spain o'erwhelm,
Yet Boabdil was thrust at last
Lamenting from Granada's realm.
And if to his old Asian seat,
From this usurped, unnatural throne,
The Turk is driven, 'tis surely meet
That we again should hold our own.
Be but Byzantium's native sign
Of Cross on Crescent once unfurled,
And Greece shall guard by right divine
The portals of the Eastern world.
Before the small Athenian band
The Persian myriads stood at bay,
The spacious East lay down unmanned
Beneath the Macedonian's sway:
Alas! that Greek could turn on Greek-
Fountain of all our woes and shame-
Till men knew scarcely where to seek
The fragments of the Grecian name.
Know ye the Romans of the North ?
The fearful race, whose infant strength
Stretches its arms of conquest forth,
To grasp the world in breadth and length ? They cry, That ye and we are old,
And worn with luxuries and cares, And they alone are fresh and bold, Time's latest and most honoured heirs!"
Alas for you! alas for us!
Alas for men that think and feel,
If once beside this Bosphorus
Shall stamp Sclavonia's frozen heel!
Oh! place us boldly in the van,
And ere we yield this narrow sea,
The past shall hold within its span
At least one more Thermopylæ.
ON THE DEATH OF
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though my home be still the same,
For I have lost the veriest friend
Whom ever a friend could name;
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see, For a part of myself has lapsed away From Time to Eternity.
I have lost a thought that many a year
Was most familiar food
To my inmost mind, by night or day,
In merry or plaintive mood;
I have lost a hope, that many a year
Looked far on a gleaming way,
When the walls of Life were closing round,
And the sky was sombre grey.
For long, too long, in distant climes
My lot was cast, and then,
A frail and casual intercourse
Was all I had with men ;
But lonelily in distant climes
I was well content to roam,
And felt no void, for my heart was full
Of the friend it had left at home.
And now I was close to my native shores,
And I felt him at my side,
His spirit was in that homeward wind,
His voice in that homeward tide :
For what were to me my native shores,
But that they held the scene,
Where my youth's most genial flowers had blown,
And affection's root had been?
I thought, how should I see him first,
How should our hands first meet,
Within his room,-upon the stair,-
At the corner of the street?
I thought, where should I hear him first,
How catch his greeting tone,-
And thus I went up to his door,
And they told me he was gone!
Oh! what is Life but a sum of love,
And Death but to lose it all?
Weeds be for those that are left behind,
And not for those that fall!
And now how mighty a sum of love
Is lost for ever to me
No, I'm not what I was yesterday, Though change there be little to see.
Thou wert fair, Lady Mary,
As the lily in the sun,
And fairer yet thou mightest be,
Thy youth was but begun :
Thine eye was soft and glancing
Of the deep bright blue;
And on the heart thy gentle words
Fell lighter than the dew.
They found thee, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Even as thou hadst been praying,
At thine hour of rest:
The cold pale moon was shining
On thy cold pale cheek; And the morn of the Nativity Had just begun to break.
They carved thee, Lady Mary,
All of pure white stone,
With thy palms upon thy breast
In the chancel all alone;
And I saw thee when the winter moon
Shone on thy marble cheek,
And the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.
But thou kneelest, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Among the perfect spirits,
In the land of rest:
Thou art even as they took thee
At thine hour of prayer,
Save the glory that is on thee
From the sun that shineth there.
We shall see thee, Lady Mary,
On that shore unknown,
A pure and happy angel
In the presence of the throne ;
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