Recal each sinful scene of life to view,
And give the soul again to guilt and you.
Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around,
And heard the forest echo Rosamund;
Have seen thy frantic looks, thy wildering eye,
Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh;
Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan,
I live-but live to penitence alone;
Depriv'd of every joy which life can give,
Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live.
Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known,
Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own!
Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life,
The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife;
One who, with every virtue, only knew
The fault, if fault it be, of loving you;
One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share
Thine every joy, and solace every care;
For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know
The aggravated weight of guilt and woe.
Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee,
Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me!
Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know,
Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe.
Henry! by all the love my life has shown,
By all the sinful raptures we have known,
By all the parting pangs that rend my breast,
Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my
last request;
And, when the last tremendous hour shall come,
When all my woes are buried in the tomb,
Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave-
Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave;
Pause o'er the turf in fulness bent of woe,
And think who lies so cold and pale below!
Think from the grave she speaks the last decree,
"What I am now, soon, Henry, thou must be!"
Then be this voice of wonted power possest,
To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast:
So should my prayers with just success be crown'd
Should Henry learn remorse from Rosamund;
Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove,
That even death was weak to end our love.
LOUD was the hostile clang of arms,
And hoarse the hollow sound,
When Pompey scatter'd wild alarms
The ravag'd East around,
The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground:
An iron forest of destructive spears
Rear'd their stern stems, where late
The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears:
Rome, through the swarming gate,
Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth:
Such was the will of fate!
From the cold regions of the North,
At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come, And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome.
"Roman!" ('twas thus the chief of Asgard cried)
"Ambitious Roman! triumph for awhile,
Trample on freedom in thy victor pride;
Yet, though now thy fortune smile,
Though Mithridates fly forlorn,
Once thy dread, but now thy scorn,
Odin will never live a shameful slave;
Some region will he yet explore,
Beyond the reach of Rome;
Where, upon some colder shore,
Freedom yet thy force shall brave,
Freedom yet shall find a home:
There, where the eagle dares not soar,
Soon shall the raven find a safe retreat.
Asgard, farewell! Farewell, my native seat!
Farewell for ever! Yet, whilst life shall roll
Her warm tide through thine injured chieftain's breast,
Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear.
Never more shall Odin rest,
Never quaff the sportive bowl,
Or soothe in peace his slothful soul,
Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here.
Triumph in thy victor might,
Mock the chief of Asgard's flight;
But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown, And Odin's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne."
Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil,
Strong grew the vigorous plant;
Danger could ne'er the nation daunt,
For war, to other realms a toil,
Was but the pastime here;
Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear,
To wield the falchion, to direct the dart,
Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart.
Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race,
And fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire;
Nor vice, nor luxury, debase
The free-born offspring of the free-born sire;
There genuine poesy, in freedom bright,
Diffus'd o'er all her clear, her all-enlivening light.
From Helicon's meandering rills
The inspiring goddess fled;
Amid the Scandinavian hills
In clouds she hid her head;
There the bold, the daring muse,
Every daring warrior wooes;
The sacred lust of deathless fame
Burnt in every warrior's soul:
"Whilst future ages hymn my name,
(The son of Odin cries)
I shall quaff the foaming bowl
With my forefathers in yon azure skies;
Methinks I see my foeman's skull
With the mantling beverage full;
I hear the shield-roof'd hall resound
To martial music's echoing sound;
I see the virgins, valour's meed,—
Death is bliss-I rush to bleed."
See where the murderer Egill stands,
He grasps the harp with skilful hands,
And pours the soul-emoving tide of song;
Mute admiration holds the listening throng:
The royal sire forgets his murder'd son;
Eric forgives; a thousand years
Their swift revolving course have run,
Since thus the bard could check the father's tears,
Could soothe his soul to peace,
And never shall the fame of Egill cease.
Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground,
Beneath the reach of cheering day,
Where Regner dying lay;
Poisonous adders all around
On the expiring warrior hung,
Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue:
We fought with swords," the warrior cry'd,
"We fought with swords," he said he died.
Jomsburg lifts her lofty walls, Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore; Undismay'd each hero falls,
And scorns his death in terror to deplore.
Strike, Thorchill, strike! drive deep the blow,
Jomsburg's sons shall not complain,
Never shall the brave appear
Bound in slavery's shameful chain,
Freedom ev'n in death is dear.
Strike, Torchill, strike! drive deep the blow,
We joy to quit this world of woe;
We rush to seize the seats above,
And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love."
The destin'd hour at length is come,
And vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' doom;
No longer heaven withholds the avenging blow
From those proud domes whence Brutus fled;
Where just Cherea bow'd his head,
And proud oppression laid the Gracchi low:
In vain the timid slaves oppose,
For freedom led their sinewy foes,
For valour fled with liberty:
Rome bows her lofty walls,
The imperial city falls,
She falls and lo, the world again is free!"
SOUL of my much-lov'd Freya! yes,
I come!
No pale disease's slow-consuming power
Has hasten'd on thy husband's hour;
Nor pour'd by victor's thirsty hand
Has Odin's life bedew'd the land:
I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom.
No more my clattering iron car
Shall rush amid the throng of war;
No more, obedient to my heavenly cause,
Shall crimson conquest stamp his Odin's laws.
I go I go;
Yet shall the nations own my sway
Far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray:
Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe
That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall,
For Odin shall avenge his Asgard's fall.
Thus burst from Odin's lips the fated sound,
As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade;
His faithful friends around
In silent wonder saw the scene, affray'd:
He, unappall'd, towards the skies
Uplifts his death-denouncing eyes;
Ope wide Valhalla's shield-roof'd hall,
Virgins of bliss! obey your master's call;
From these injurious realms below
The sire of nations hastes to go."
Say, falters now your chieftain's breath?
Or chills pale terror now his death-like face?
Then weep not, Thor, thy friend's approaching death;
Let no unmanly tears disgrace
The first of mortal's valiant race:
Dauntless Heimdal, mourn not now,
Balder! clear thy cloudy brow;
I go to happier realms above,
To realms of friendship and of love.
This unmanly grief dispelling,
List to glory's rapturous call;
So with Odin ever dwelling,
Meet him in the shield-roof'd hall:
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