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The worm can delve her fruitage-bed;
The woodland insect, clung below
The falling leaf, eludes the tread ;
The tomb's retreat is all we know.
Blest, who a Christian dies: their savage zeal,
Hear it great God! converts by fire and steel;
Ev'n in that fane where peace and hope of old
Flow'd on our hearts from lips of gold.
"Twas on this shore, where pagan guilt
Th' abhorred idols' shrines had built,
The words of saints the seed had sown
Of worship pure to thee alone:
The tree that struck in wilds its root,
Whose leaves should fold the world in shade,
On ruins blooms with bitter fruit:
For us it blossoms but to fade.
God! in the days of her past glory free
Greece worshipp'd not th' eternal Word: to thee
True, living God! she kneels in bondage now;
"Shall her false Jove do more than thou?"
He sang, he wept; when from his turret-stand
The Moslem rose, and sprang with armed hand :
O'er the stretch'd tube is bent the turban'd brow:
The sparkle bursts; the nitre smokes and now
A shrilling sound is in the breeze: and hark!
A cry-from whence? from that lone floating bark?
Is it thy shriek, poor Levite? thine the lute
Dropp'd with that plaintive moan?-the dying hymn is mute.
But night already cast her shadowing veil ;
Lost in the rolling vapours pale
The random skiff now oarless, guideless stray'd,
Without a voice, and vanish'd into shade.
The night was stormy: with the sun's first ray,
Measuring with fearful glance th' extended bay,
At the tower's foot an old man watch'd alone;
'Midst flakes of foam amid the pebbles thrown
A lute has caught his eye; a lute whose string
A mortal ball had grazed with leaden wing;
One chord untwisted on the concave lay
With blood-stains red, diluted by the spray;
The old man darts upon the lyre's remains;
Stoops, handles, shudders through his anguish'd veins;
On Coron's towers he bends a lowering eye;
But on his faint lips sinks the threatening cry:
He trembles at the scene, and turns aside
With stifled groan, and steals along the tide :
His burden'd heart is bursting for relief:
He shuns the ruthless eyes that curb his grief;
Looks up to heaven, sole witness of his woe,
And to the roaring surges murmurs low,
"But yesternight I waited long for thee
Who camest not; and thou dost wait for me."
O thou! to whom the universe
Breathes forth its homage or its curse;
Fortune !-whose hand from east to west
Dispenses laurels, sceptres, chains,
Is thy blind fury laid to rest,
Or yet what triumph, what reverse remains?
The bruit of our disasters speaks thy power:
· The game was bloody which thou play'dst for France:
Too haughty in the rights they late have known
The people with a sovereign step advance
Trampling the wreck of Capet's throne:
But in their fierce ungovernable hour
To the disdain of law they freedom urge,
And reason push to frenzy's verge.
But a new king arose, whose crested deeds
At once upbore him to the height; he stood
With despot sceptre, and like shiver'd reeds
Dash'd the republic's fasces, dropping blood:
Exhausted victory must his throne cement,
And heroism be squander'd wild away;
Europe defied beneath his glory bent,
She now insults our setting day;
And wherefore?-they but live in memory
The flower of France's chivalry,
Nipp'd by the snow-blast of the north's fell sky:
O pity! O disaster! O dismay!
O ever sad, too memorable day!
When through the sabled land arose the cry;
Yes, they lie dead; and Moscow's fiery cloud
With glare funereal lights their frozen shroud.
Reigns of a moment, falls, and slippery turns,
Changes that mock belief!-your leaven spreads
Through France's turbid spirits: hatred burns
Within us, Discord all her poisons sheds.
Deaf to the terrors of the warning time,
Uncheck'd the feverous hope that fires his veins,
The proud republican aspires to climb
To liberty that spurns at reins;
The harvest of his liberty was crime;
Illusive ocean which no mound restrains;
It lies before me that tremendous strand,
Strewn with the wrecks of a distracted land.
Ah! turn them into profitable woes!
To civil storms a dike oppose;
Ye powers! ye mighty rivals! ye that spring
From people and from king,
Free yet dependent, make the sovran throne
A rampart 'gainst our will, a curb upon its own.
In vain would reason charm the mind
Of egotism and pride, the deaf and blind:
The past's idolater the now disdains,
Jealous that princes have been loosed from chains;
Yet bends the brow to prejudice's stroke,
And headstrong stoops beneath her welcome yoke.
Eternal factions! most legitimate
When fastest throned on ruins of the state!
Proscribed, proscribing, raised or trampled down,
Now victim, tyrant now; a scaffold or a crown!
O hapless empire! see thy destiny!
Franks! say no more "to us our France is dear:" She disavows th' ungrateful progeny,
Strangling each other, and her breast your bier:
Turn 'gainst the foes the courage of your brave;
The conquerors' conclave weigh your Francia's fate:
The kings that brought her incense, each her slave,
Sell freedom to her in her fall'n estate:
No-not in vain the voice of France has call'd:
And if they deem, by treaties base enthrall'd,
To brand us with a stigma on the brow,
Darkening for ever, as it blackens now;
If with their haughty finger they describe
The cities parted to the faithless tribe,
The traitorous crowned league; if the seal'd troth
Be falsified; the sword annul the oath ;
If France be done to die-arise! yet save
Her honour, or be buried in her grave!
What do I hear? whence that ecstatic sound
That rolling onward thickens as it rolls?
What songs? what transports, not from tongues, but souls? What concourse murmuring, deepening round?
The citizens rush gathering from afar,
Their noble spirits blazing at their eyes:
Clasp'd they detain each other: veterans brave
Lift now their foreheads, plough'd with many a scar;
The stranger's gone!-the chain in shivers flies;
Frenchman! thou art no longer slave!
Re-assume thy proud spirit
O country august!
Thy glory inherit
And start from thy dust!
Oh country! oh freedom, no longer a slave!
Doff the robe of thy mourning, come forth from thy grave!
Thrice ten years of conquest avenge us in story,
And the stranger may vaunt of the gleam of his glory.
Yes-let his taunts be answer'd with disdain !
The banners from our rival won remain :
France! veil thy wounds from his exulting eye:
The flags he lost thee shall the veil supply.
PARTHENOPE AND THE STRANGER.
"What wouldst thou, lady?"—An asylum.
What is thy crime?"-none. "Who accuse thee?"-they
Who are ungrateful. "Who thine enemy?
Each whom the succour of my sword set free;
Adored but yesterday; proscribed to-day.
"What shall my hospitality repay?"
A day's short peril; laws eternal.
Within my city dare thy steps pursue?"
Kings. "When arrive they?" With the morn. "From whence?"
From every side: say, shall thy gate's defence
Be mine? "Yes-enter; but reveal to me
Thy name, O stranger!" I am LIBERTY!
Receive her ramparts old! again,
For ye her dwelling were of yore;
Receive her midst your gods once more,
Oh every antique fane!
Rise shades of heroes! hover o'er
To grace her awful train!
Fair sky of Naples! laugh with gladdening rays;
Bring forth, oh earth! thy hosts on every side;
Sing, O ye people! hymn the Goddess' praise;
"Tis she for whom Leonidas once died.
Her brows all idle ornaments refuse;
Half-open'd flowers compose her diadem; Rear'd in Thermopyla with gory dews
Not twice a thousand years have tarnish'd them.
The wreath immortal sheds a nameless balm
Which courage raptured breathes: in accents calm
Yet terrible, her conquering voice disarms
The rebel to her sway: her eyes impart
A holy transport to the panting heart,
And virtue only boasts superior charms.
The people pause around her; and their cries
Ask from what cause these kings, forgetting ruth,
Cherish their anger: the strange maid replies,
"Alas! I told to monarchs truth!"
If hate or if imprudence in my name
Had shook their power, which I would but restrain, Why should I bear the burden of the blame?
And are they Germans who would forge my chain?
Have they forgot, these slaves of yesterday,
Who now oppress you with their tyrant sway,
How in sore straitness when to me they cried,
I join'd their phalanx by Arminius' side?
Rallying their tribes I scoop'd the blood-tinged snows
In gaping death-beds for their sinking foes.
Avenge ye, Gods! that look upon my wrong!
And may the memory of my bounties past
Pursue these ingrates; dog their scattering throng;
May Odin's sons upon the cloudy blast
With storm-wrapt brows above them stray,
Glare by them in the lightning's midnight ray;
And may Rome's legions, with whose whitening bones
I strew'd their plains in ages past,
Rise in their sight and chase them to their thrones.
Ha! and does Rome indeed sepulchred lie
In her own furrow's crumbling mould?
Shall not my foot with ancient potency
Stamp, and from earth start forth her legions old?
Feel'st thou not, Rome! within thy entrails deep
The cold bones shaking, and the spirits stir
Of citizens that, in their marble sleep,
Rest under many a trophied sepulchre?
Break, Genoese, your chains!-th' impatient flood Murmurs till ye from worthless sloth have started, And proudly heaves beneath your floating wood, Where streams the flag, whose glory is departed.
Fair widow of the Medici! be born!
Again, thou noble Florence! now unclasp Thy arms to my embrace: from slavery's grasp Breathe free in Independence' stormy morn.
O Neptune's daughter, Venice! city fair
As Venus, and that didst like her emerge
From the foam-silver'd, beauty-ravish'd surge,
Let Albion see thee thy shorn beams repair:
Doge! in my name command: within your walls
Proclaim me, Senate !-Zeno wake!
Aside thy sleep Pisani shake:
"'Tis Liberty that calls!"
She spoke and a whole people with one will
Caught that arousing voice: the furnace-light
Glow'd, and the hardening steel grew white:
Against the biting file the edge rang shrill;
Far clang'd the anvil: bray'd the trumpet: one
Furbish'd his lance, and one his steed's caparison.
The father throws his weight of years aside,
Accoutring glad the youngest of his sons;
Nor tarries, but his steps outruns,
And foremost joins the lines with emulous stride:
The sister, smiling at his spleen, detains
The baby warrior, who the lap disdains,
And cries, "I go to die upon the plains."
Then what did they or might they not have done
Whose courage manhood nerved? or say, could one
Repose his hope in flight, or fear the death
Claim'd by the aged and the infant breath?
Yes-all with common voice exclaim'd aloud,
"We sit beneath thy laurel, and will guard
Its leaves from profanation: take, O bard!
Thy lyre, and sing our feats, their best reward:
For Virgil's sacred shroud
Shall ne'er be spurn'd by victor footstep proud."
They march'd, this warlike people in their scorn;
And when one moon had fill'd her horn,
Th' oppressor German "took his rouze
And drain'd his draughts of Rhenish" tranquilly;
And they lay round him, shelter'd by the boughs
Öf Virgil's laurel tree.
With eyes averted Liberty had fled :
Parthenope recall'd her: she her head
Bent for a moment from the height of air;
"Thou hast betray'd thy guest: befall thee fair!
Art gone for ever?" They await me:" where?
"IN GREECE." They will pursue thee thither too.
"Defenders will be found." They too may yield,
And numbers there may sweep thee from the field.
"Aye; but tis possible to die: adieu!"
THE QUARTERLY REVIEW ON TITHES.
In the last number of the Quarterly Review (58), there is an article on Ecclesiastical Revenues, which has attracted considerable attention. The subject is of too delicate and ex
tensive a nature to receive, within our limits, a discussion proportioned to its importance. But there is a part of the subject, that of Tithes, which is of such practical conse