INVOCATION.
Hush’d is the world in night and sleep—
Earth, sea, and air are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep
Were music’s faintest breath.
Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.
In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals pass’d;
Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.
Oh, bear your softest balm to those
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead!
To them that world of peace disclose
Where the bright soul is fled:
Whore Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.
Or to his loved, his distant land
On your light wings the exile bear,
To feel once more his heart expand
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.
But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft his spirit to its native skies
Who finds no charm in life’s realities.
No voice is on the air of night,
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower:
Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.
[57] Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, p. 62.
TO THE MEMORY OF
GENERAL SIR E—D P—K—M.[58]
Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret,
Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon,
Oh, who could deem thy star should set
So darkly and so soon!
Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind
Which mark’d and closed thy brief career,
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined,
Lies wither’d on thy bier.
The soldier’s death hath been thy doom,
The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be;
Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb
Might Fate have rear’d for thee.
Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief!
In those bright days of glory fled,
When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief
We scarce could mourn the dead.
Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then
Was worthy of a warrior’s grave:
When shall affection weep again
So proudly o’er the brave?
There, on the battle-fields of Spain,
Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene,
Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain,
Meet had thy deathbed been.
We mourn not that a hero’s life
Thus in its ardent prime should close;
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife,
But died midst conquer’d foes!
Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame
In that last moment cheer’d thee not)
Left Glory’s isle another name,
That ne’er may be forgot:
And many a tale of triumph won
Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear,
And long may England mourn a son
Without reproach or fear.
[58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery.”—History of Europe, vol. x. p. 743.
The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action:—“The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”—Edinr. An. Regist. 1815, p. 356.
TO THE MEMORY OF
SIR H—Y E—LL—S,
WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
“Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.”—Ossian.
Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d
On England’s proudest battle-field?
For him, the lion-heart, who died
In victory’s full resistless tide?
Oh, mourn him not!
By deeds like his that field was won,
And Fate could yield to Valour’s son
No brighter lot.
He heard his band’s exulting cry,
He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly;
And envied be his death of fame!
It shed a sunbeam o’er his name
That nought shall dim:
No cloud obscured his glory’s day,
It saw no twilight of decay.
Weep not for him!
And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan,
A hero claims far loftier tone!
Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell,
Recording how the mighty fell
In that dread hour,
When England, midst the battle-storm—
The avenging angel—rear’d her form
In tenfold power.
Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise,
Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays;
Since he, the soldier’s guiding star,
The Victor-chief, the lord of war,
Has own’d thy fame:
And oh! like his approving word,
What trophied marble could record
A warrior’s name?