112
PRIZE POEMS.
O'er his broad forehead visibly were wrought
The dark deep lines of courage and of thought;
And if the colour from his cheek was fled,
Its paleness spoke no passion,—and no dread.
The meek endurance, and the steadfast will,
The patient nerve, that suffers, and is still,
The humble faith, that bends to meet the rod,
And the strong hope, that turns from man to God,—
All these were his; and his firm heart was set,
And knew the hour must come,—but was not yet.
Again long years of darkness and of pain,
The Moslem scymetar, the Moslem chain;
Where Phidias toil'd, the turban'd spoilers brood,
And the Mosque glitters where the Temple stood.
Alas! how well the slaves their fetters wear,
Proud in disgrace, and cheerful in despair!
While the glad music of the boatman's song
On the still air floats happily along.
The light caique goes bounding on its way
Through the bright ripples of Piræus' bay;
And when the stars shine down, and twinkling feet
In the gay measure blithely part and meet,
The dark-eyed maiden scatters through the grove
Her tones of fondness, and her looks of love:
Oh, sweet the lute, the dance! but bondage flings
Grief on the steps, and discord on the strings;
Yet, thus degraded, sunken as thou art,
Still thou art dear to many a boyish heart;
And many a poet, full of fervour, goes,
To read deep lessons, Athens, in thy woes.
And such was he, the long-lamented one,
England's fair hope, sad Granta's cherish'd son,
Ill-fated Tweddell!—If the flush of youth,
The light of genius, and the glow of truth,
If all that fondness honours and adores,
If all that grief remembers and deplores,
The dark deep lines of courage and of thought;
And if the colour from his cheek was fled,
Its paleness spoke no passion,—and no dread.
The meek endurance, and the steadfast will,
The patient nerve, that suffers, and is still,
The humble faith, that bends to meet the rod,
And the strong hope, that turns from man to God,—
All these were his; and his firm heart was set,
And knew the hour must come,—but was not yet.
Again long years of darkness and of pain,
The Moslem scymetar, the Moslem chain;
Where Phidias toil'd, the turban'd spoilers brood,
And the Mosque glitters where the Temple stood.
Alas! how well the slaves their fetters wear,
Proud in disgrace, and cheerful in despair!
While the glad music of the boatman's song
On the still air floats happily along.
The light caique goes bounding on its way
Through the bright ripples of Piræus' bay;
And when the stars shine down, and twinkling feet
In the gay measure blithely part and meet,
The dark-eyed maiden scatters through the grove
Her tones of fondness, and her looks of love:
Oh, sweet the lute, the dance! but bondage flings
Grief on the steps, and discord on the strings;
Yet, thus degraded, sunken as thou art,
Still thou art dear to many a boyish heart;
And many a poet, full of fervour, goes,
To read deep lessons, Athens, in thy woes.
And such was he, the long-lamented one,
England's fair hope, sad Granta's cherish'd son,
Ill-fated Tweddell!—If the flush of youth,
The light of genius, and the glow of truth,
If all that fondness honours and adores,
If all that grief remembers and deplores,
