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My Soul Is Dark
My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmur o’er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it had been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence long;
And now ‘tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once – or yield to song
Epitaph for William Pitt
With Death doomed to grapple,
Beneath this cold slab, he
Wholied in the Chapel,
Now lies in the Abbey.
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY
‘Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days?
Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years,
and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court.’ - Ossian
Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choked up the rose which late bloom’d in the way.
Of the mail-cover’d Barons, who proudly to battle
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain,
The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell’d wreath;
Near Askalon’s towers, John of Horistan slumbers,
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.
Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye;
How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.
On Marston, with Rupert, ‘gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich’d with their blood the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal’d.
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remebrance imparting
New courage, he’ll think upon glory and you.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
’Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne’er can forget.
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne’er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay’d, may he mingle his dust with your ow
Farewell! If ever fondest prayer
Farewell! If ever fondest prayer
For other’s weal avail’d on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
’T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:
Oh! More than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,
Are in that word – Farewell! – farewell!
These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pas not by,
The sought that ne’er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain -
I only feel – Farewell! – Farewell!
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