For many a wistful hour, to pity dear,
A wanderer wove affection’s visions here;
Kissed the memorial form his bosom wore,
And looked, ’till tears would let him look no more.
All that the heart at last might lean on gone;
Yet madly did he languish—linger on;
Spent sighs to which no sympathy was given,
And pledged wild vows, unheard of all, save heaven;
Wept by the grave of love, nor owned despair,
Though not one flower of Hope bloomed palely there.
Her eye—bright herald of a better mind—
Unkind, or only to the trifler kind;
That eye, for which his own with tears was dim,
Glanced smiles on all, but would not smile on him,
Whose heart alone, though broken to conceal,
Could feel its fire—too deeply, finely feel—
In wayward thrall, thus many a day waned past,
But freedom came—his spirit woke at last—
Shook off the spell—marched—mingled with the brave,
And sought a resting place in glory’s grave—
Oh! there, if laurel meed be haply wove,
Mix one pale willow too, for slighted love.
One more quotation, and we have done. We envy not the feelings of those who can read the Sonnet to his Desert-Harp, after having acquainted themselves with the circumstances attending his untimely fate, without emotion:
SONNET.
Harp of the waves! my visionary child,
That, shipwrecked on the inhospitable shore,
Sat’st on the rocks, and to the breakers’ roar,
Sang’st of the conquering cross, and crescent foiled,
While thy rapt master, not unconscious, smiled—
Henceforth thy desert voice be heard no more;—
Poor orphan of the ocean! whose sole love
Was fondness for thy theme—exulting wild
In England’s glory.—Come, I’ll braid thee now—
For thy best strings are broken, and the heart
That gave them utterance—with pale flowers that blow
On barren cliffs, with wave-weed, sour and swart;
Then, like old Cambria’s bard, from some crag’s brow
Plunge—where we’ll sleep in peace, and never part.
We cannot conclude our notice of the life and writings of the ill-fated Fitzadam more appropriately, than with the following exquisite tribute to his memory, from the pen of the highly-gifted authoress of the “Improvisatrice.”
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM.
It was a harp just fit to pour
Its music to the wind and wave;—
He had a right to tell their fame,
Who stood himself amid the brave.
The first time that I read his strain
There was a tempest on the sky,
And sulphurous clouds, and thunder crash,
Were like dark ships, and battle cry.
I had forgot my woman’s fears
In thinking on my country’s fame,
Till almost I could dream I saw
Her colours float o’er blood and flame.
Died the high song, as dies the voice
Of the proud trumpet on the wind;
And died the tempest too, and left
A gentle twilight-hour behind.
