Those shrieks proclaim thee "mortal,"
And hands prepared to crown thee make thy grave.
The garlands gay, now steep'd in briny tear,
Grace not thy lovely brow, but deck thy bier :
And those who framed the beauties there combined
Mark'd not the deadly cypress intertwined.
Poor victim of ambition's restless power,
How bright! but, oh, how brief her glory's hour!
That voice's melody is lost to earth,
Call'd to the brighter skies that gave it birth,
To join with kindred spirits the blest throng,
And praise her God in renovated song.
ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF
THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S CHARGER,
THAT BORE HIM ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
"It is a creature that I teach to fight,
"To wind, to stop, to run directly on ;
“His corporal motion govern'd by my spirit.”
ALAS! who would not grieve for thee,
Thou gallant steed of chivalry!
Thy destined race at length is run,
In glory sank thy setting sun;
And warriors mourn thee now, declaring
Nought could excel thy gallant bearing:
Such tribute from the bold and brave,
Copenhagen, decks thy grave.
No Paynim chief didst thou convey
Through Templars' ranks in dread array:
Nor bore inglorious from the fight
A coward, or a conquer'd knight.
No robber chief of feudal time
Didst thou lead on to war or crime;
No monarch, freedom to regain,
Urged thy fleet footstep o'er the plain.
Thou England's champion proudly bore
Through fields of death, and fearful gore;
His anxious toil and danger sharing,
Seeming conscious thou wert bearing
All England's destiny in one—
Thy master, and our Wellington!
Thou, like Bucephalus as free, -
Another Alexander he:
Thou, full of fire and courage still,
He, bending thee to his high will,
And shouts of thousands rent the sky
As thou borest him to victory!
Patient beneath his guiding hand,
Dauntless thou met the deadly band
Of foes on Waterloo's red field,
Nor did thy untired spirit yield,
But proved thy mettle and thy strength
For sixteen hours' appalling length!
Thy noble chief thou didst sustain
Through all the peril and the pain
His soul endured, to save his land
From a rude despot's iron hand.
All his heart suffer'd that dark day
No earthly honours can repay,
And grateful England owns that yet
Posterity must pay the debt.
Thee will he mourn both deep and long,
And will not scorn the minstrel's song,
Recording thus thy worth and end, —
Thou gallant steed, thou faithful friend!
ON READING THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE."
BULWER! thy genius never took
A higher flight, than when
This tale of varied beauty flow'd
Fresh from thy witching pen.
The richest attributes that grace
The poet and the man,
In taste and feeling all refined,
Through every page we scan.
Say, why then such a talent waste
Like fragrance on the plain?
Stooping to themes that only please
The idle and the vain!
Oh! cherish with a jealous care
Thy mind's poetic fire,
Lest in a faulty recklessness.
It should too soon expire.
Deep is the source from whence is drawn
That tale's most magic power:
Ah! let no taint the pure tide stain,
In any thoughtless hour!
On every future page thou'lt build
Imperishable fame,
Or, in the licence of thy pen,
Will sink the author's name.
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