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.
FELLOW OF KING'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
EASE me no more, nor think I care Tho' monarchs bow at Kitty's shrine, Or powder'd coxcombs woo the fair, Since Kitty is no longer mine.
Indifferent 'tis alike to me
If my favorite dove be stole, Whether its dainty feathers be Pluck'd by the eagle or the owl.
If not for me its blushing lips
The rose-bud opens, what care I
Who the odorous liquid sips
The king of bees or butterfly?
Like me, the Indians of Peru,
Rich in mines of golden ore,
Dejected see the merchant's crew
Transport it to a foreign shore.
Seeks the slave despoiled to know,
Whether his gold, in shape of lace,
Shine on the coat of birth-day beau,
Or wear the stamp of George's face?
ADDRESSED TO A LADY, WITH A MIRROUR.
* Attempted in the Stile of the Commencement of the Seventeenth Century.
HOMAGE of a vassal's dutie,
Render'd to commandynge beautie,
Ladie fayre, accept from mee
Tribute to thy sov'rantie !—
Let this little mirroure showe
Rather what I feele than owe ;-
Small and simple tho it seeme,
Thou wilt of the offerynge deeme
By it's votarie's humble harte,
Rather than it's owne deserte.
Hither bende youre radiante eyne,
Rivall'd on this crystalle shrine,
That will shewe twinne-starres as bryghte,
Beamynge with reflected lyghte.
When youre cherub cheeke discloses
Rubied lyllies, pearled roses,
The Author's Imitation of the ancient Orthography, may, perhaps, be deemed too Chattertonian. He can only say, that his attempt was more directed at the stile of the Seventeenth Century, than at its mode of spelling.
In this mirroure shall you meete
Flowers as fayre, tho not as sweet.—
Ladie, blushe not here to shewe
Love's luxuriante orbes of snowe;
Here with fearlesse hande unveile
Charmes that bashfulle maydes conceale;
To this silent frende confide
What, alasse, from mee you hide !—
Ladie, this is Candoure's booke;
Deigne you on it's leafe to looke,
It will speake in language trewe,
What no flatterynge tongue will doe:
While with sweetelie-wytchynge grace
Dimplynge smiles adorne your face,
Here an image you shall see,
Fayrer than EUPHROSYNE:
But if angry frownes deforme
That smoothe browe with gatherynge storme,
Straighte this uncorrupted mirroure
Plainlie will reflect your erroure.
Ladie, feare not here to viewe
Face and minde in coloures trewe;-
Beautie's flower will fade awaye,
Virtue never knowes decaye;
This is but a childe of erthe,
That to angelles owes her birthe :-
Ladie, guard with ceaselesse care
Virtue's blossome, sweete and rare !—
So, when threescore Summers passe,
Pictured in this faithfulle glasse,
Deck'd with innocence and truthe,
Age shall beare the bloome of youthe.-
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