Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near fort or bay, And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lay. The armaments which thunder-strike the walls These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts :-not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form The image of Eternity-the throne The monsters of the deep are made; each zon: Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. HARK! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be, Her many griefs for ONE; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead! Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Like stars to shepherds eyes :-'twas but a meteor beam'd. Wo unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late. These might have been her destiny; but no, How many ties did that stern moment tear! From thy Sire's to his humblest subjects breast Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BRIGHT be the place of thy soul, Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be, May spring from the spot of thy rest : For why should we mourn for the blest? HEBREW MELODY. SHE walks in beauty like the night Thus mellow'd to that tender light One shade the more, one ray the less, And on that cheek and o'er that brow, A mind at peace with all below, HERBERT KNOWLES. BORN 1798-died 1817. THERE is a vigour and ripeness in the subjoined stanzas, which could scarcely be expected from the pen of a youth of eighteen, however highly gifted by nature: it was ripeness for immortality. The accomplished writer, Herbert Knowles of Canterbury, died in 1817, at the age of nineteen, near the place where these verses were composed. |