So reigns he-rais'd by deeds of high renown And favouring chance, girt with the pomp of war. But not unvisited, if Fame say true, Of fearful thoughts, that hover round his couch, And mar his midnight slumbers; nor secure From vengeance ever plotting to destroy His usurpation, and the just disdain That loyalty and honour feel to bend Submissive at the shrine of tyrannous power.
Nor think we that the Gods look reekless on,
While he enjoys the throne of lawful kings, Who hath so oft blasphem'd them, and bow'd down To monstrous deities: and a day will come For retribution, when the hand of Heaven Shall blast his vaunted fortune, and his sword, Wherein he trusted, shall avenge the blood That cries against him, proving to vain man, That, though successful guilt triumphs awhile, Eternal Justice will at length assert Its rights, and pure Religion vindicate Her holy altars and unspotted name.
Be this dark spot for ever to verdure unknown, For ever by Virtue and Pity untrod;
Unbreath'd be his name, and unhonour'd his stone, The foe of his Country, his King and his God!
FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ.
SONGSTER sweet, begin the lay, Ever new, and ever gay; Bring the joy-inspiring wine, Ever fresh and ever fine.
With a heart-alluring lass, Gaily let the moments pass; Kisses stealing when you may, Ever fresh and ever gay.
Gentle boy, whose silver feet Nimbly move to cadence sweet, Fill us quick the generous wine, Ever fresh and ever fine.
How enjoy life's tedious hours Without wine's seducing powers ? These will make them pass away, Ever fresh and ever gay.
To me the sweet enchanting maid, Charins devotes that never fade; Charms t' inspire her poet's song, Ever fair and ever young.
Zephyrs! while you gently move By the mansions of my love, Softly Hafiz' strains repeat, Ever new and ever sweet.
To Hope, that brightest star of Love, I bid a sorrowful farewell, For here within this silent grove,
As solemn tolls the evening bell, I'll mourn his loss and sing his knell.
Or on some moss-grown turf repose, The dewy light of morn to hail, Where echoes oft repeat my woes, As sadly sighs the balmy gale, To hear my lover's funeral knell.
Spirits! if e'er you wander near My love's unhallow'd grassy bed, O bear this soul impassion'd tear, To grace the relics of the dead; And say that here you saw me dwell, To weep and sing his funeral knell.
ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden shew'd another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death, to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, by thunder riven; Then flew the steed, to battle driven; And, rolling like the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd their red artillery.
But redder yet their fires shall glow, On Linden's heights of crimson'd snow, And bloodier still the torrent flow Of Iser rolling rapidly.
The combat deepens! On ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry.
"Tis morn;-but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun Where fiery Frank and furious Hun Shout in their sulphury canopy.
Few, few shall part where many meet; The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every sod beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
FROM THE SPANISH OF LUPERCIO.
THOU art determin'd to be beautiful Lyris! and, Lyris, either thou art mad, Or hast no looking-glass; dost thou not know Thy paint-beplaster'd forehead, broad and bare, With not a grey lock left, thy mouth so black, And that invincible breath. We rightly deem That with a random hand blind Fortune deals The lots of life, to thee she gave a boon That crowds so anxiously and vainly wish, Old age, and left in thee no trace of youth Save all its folly and its ignorance.
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