These once were mine, but far away
From my poor bosom they are flown:
In this cold heart they will not stay;———
This heart can never be my own.
It does not throb with anxious fears,
Nor has it strength to heave a moun;
It does not fill the eye with tears:
It surely cannot be my own;
My heart was ever stout and bold,
Whatever demon cross’d my way;
But now, alas! ’tis icy cold,
Nor cheers me once throughout the day.
Not a gay thought finds entrance there;
Not a warm feeling makes it glow;
Nor is it yet o’erwhelm’d with care———
But in my breast it sinks so low,———
So low—it makes my life-blood creep
In chilling current through my veins;
Till night cornea on, and friendly sleep
Throws its dark mantle o’er my pains.
But when I wake from busy rest
(For dreams unceasing round me fly),
I hear the echo of my breast———
“Lie down, old man, lie down and die!”
Could I that kind command obey,
It would my drooping spirits cheer;
How should I haste to flee away,
For I am sick of being here!
Thou sad, desponding, dreary guest,
Leave me with all thy gloomy train!
Oh! quit the mansion of my breast———
Let my own heart come back again.
But if, malignant, thou wilt stay,
Oh! may thy currents freeze and dry!
O Time, arrest them on their way———
“Let the old man lie down, and die!”
To the Memory of Sir J. Moore, K. B.
While France her plund'iing Myrmidons disgorg’d,
And deluged Europe with her bloodstain’d hordes;
Britain, to burst the chains a tyrant forged,
To guard the rights of Spain———her aid affords.
Her Patriot King, to cheer the land distress’d,
Sent his brave warriors to Iberia’s shore;
To save a prince by tyranny oppress’d,———
To give them victory,———he gave them Moore.
Led by their gallant chief, the troops advance,
Till unsustain’d by those they fought to save;
Alike the friend of Spain and scourge of France,
The gallant Moore retreated to his wave.
Foremost to lead his danger scorning band,
The budding laurels o’er his temples wave;
(When the bold chieftain, on the Spanish strand,
'Midst victory fell!) those laurels deck his grave.
The marbled column and the sculptur’d bust
May give to infamy a deathless name;
But nobler trophies shade the hero’s dust,
And nobler feelings consecrate his fame.
’Tis not the title royalty imparts,
’Tis not the monument a Senate rears;
But ’tis those “sacred shrines,” the people’s hearts,
Whose grateful incense is a nation’s tears.
As when the forest’s pride fierce lightning rends,
Struck by the sacred fire of Heaven it lies;
Yet from its root a kindred oak ascends.
With native grandeur tow'ring to the skies.
Thus shall “his spirit,” hov'ring o’er our shores,
Inspire compatriot youths like him to bleed;
While future ages boast their vet'ran Moores
And future Moores to future Moores succeed.
S. B. Frome.
