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On being WHY cast ye back upon the Gallic shore,
Stranded Ye furious waves! a patriotic Son

near the

Of England-who in hope her coast had won, Harbour of Boulogne His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er ? Well let him pace this noted beach once more, That gave the Roman his triumphal shells; That saw the Corsican his cap and bells Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror !— Enough my Country's cliffs I can behold, And proudly think, beside the chafing sea, Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled, And folly cursed with endless memory: These local recollections ne'er can cloy; Such ground I from my very heart enjoy!

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After Land- WHERE be the noisy followers of the game

ing. The Which faction breeds! the turmoil where, that Valley of



Nov. 1820 Through Europe,echoing from the newsman's blast,

And filled our heartswith grief for England's shame!
Peace greets us ;-rambling on without an aim
We mark majestic herds of cattle, free
To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea;
And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim
The season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound
Stirs not; enwrapt I gaze with strange delight,
While consciousnesses, not to be disowned,
Here only serve a feeling to invite
That lifts the spirit to a calmer height,
And makes this rural stillness more profound.

FROM the Pier's head, musing, and with increase At Dover
Of wonder, I have watched this sea-side Town, 1837
Under the white cliff's battlemented crown,
Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath peace.
The streets and quays are thronged, but why disown
Their natural utterance? whence this strange release
From social noise-silence elsewhere unknown?-
A Spirit whispered, "Let all wonder cease;
Ocean's o'erpowering murmurs have set free
Thy sense from pressure of life's common din;
As the dread Voice that speaks from out the sea
Of God's eternal Word, the Voice of Time
Doth deaden shocks of tumult, shrieks of crime,
The shouts of folly, and the groans of sin.'



Memorials of a Tour in Italy


The Pine of I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine
Monte Mario Look like a cloud-a slender stem the tie
at Rome That bound it to its native earth-poised high
'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line,
Striving in peace each other to outshine.

But when I learned the Tree was living there,
Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care,
Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine!
The rescued Pine-Tree, with its sky so bright
And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home,
Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight,
Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome

(Then first apparent from the Pincian Height)
Crowned with St Peter's everlasting Dome.

Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?
Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock,
Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still
That name, a local Phantom proud to mock
The Traveller's expectation?-Could our Will
Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done
Thro' what men see and touch,-slaves wandering


Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill.
Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh;
Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn,
From that depression raised, to mount on high
With stronger wing, more clearly to discern
Eternal things; and, if need be, defy

Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern.

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THOSE old credulities, to nature dear,
Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock
Of History, stript naked as a rock
'Mid a dry desert? What is it we hear?
The glory of Infant Rome must disappear,
Her morning splendours vanish, and their place
Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled her face
With those bright beams yet hid it not, must steer
Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and slow;
One solace yet remains for us who came
Into this world in days when story lacked
Severe research, that in our hearts we know
How, for exciting youth's heroic flame,
Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.

At Rome

History of

Legends of COMPLACENT Fictions were they, yet the same
Early Rome Involved a history of no doubtful sense,
History that proves by inward evidence

From what a precious source of truth it came.
Ne'er could the boldest Eulogist have dared
Such deeds to paint, such characters to frame,
But for coeval sympathy prepared

To greet with instant faith their loftiest claim.
None but a noble people could have loved
Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded style:
Not in like sort the Runic Scald was moved;
He, nursed 'mid savage passions that defile
Humanity, sang feats that well might call
For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's riotous Hall.

Plea for the FORBEAR to deem the Chronicler unwise,
Historian Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth,

Who, gathering up all that Time's envious tooth
Has spared of sound and grave realities,
Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries,
Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth,
That might have drawn down Clio from the skies
To vindicate the majesty of truth.

Such was her office while she walked with men,
A Muse, who, not unmindful of her Sire
All-ruling Jove, whate'er the theme might be
Revered her mother, sage Mnemosyne,

And taught her faithful servants how the lyre
Should animate, but not mislead, the pen.

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