We rear no marble o'er thy tomb;
No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom

Such dwelling to adorn.
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be
The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath;
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;

And oft, upon the midnight air,

Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose;

And bear, from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes!

What form more lovely could be given
Than thine to messenger of heaven?1

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.

1Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, page 287.

In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals past;
Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.

O! 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:

the tear,

Where 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.

TO THE MEMORY OF

GENERAL SIR E-D P—K—M.

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 meed 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 Vittoria'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.

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?

VOL. II. - 23

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 should the war-song swell, Recording how the mighty fell

In that dread hour,

When England, 'midst the battle-storm-
Th' 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?