STANZAS

Lady! tho' all too oft mine eye

Meet thine, forbear to blame;

Nor censure an unguarded sigh

Because it breathes thy name.

For beauty is a planet bright,

Which rules the subject gaze,

And every eye a satellite

Attracted by its blaze.

And who hath ever seen thy face

So dangerously fair

Or gazed upon thy form of grace,

But wished his sphere were there?

O, when the brook forgets to run,
The living gem to gleam,

And roses, blushing at the sun,

Grow pale beneath his beam;

When all is foul that charmed before,

When young

hearts cease to glow,

When snow-white bosoms seem no more,

But turn, indeed, to snow;

Then bid the fond and spell-bound eye Be passionless, e'en when

Some form as fair as thine is by;

But, lady-not till then!

TO THE

MEMORY OF CAPTAIN BLACKWOOD

WHO FELL AT WATERLOO

The drum was heard at dead midnight,

And thousands at the stirring call
Were marshalled, by the torch's light,
In Belgium's crowded capital:

The cannon boom'd, the bugle wailed,
The falchion from its scabbard flew-

For Britain's lion-banner hailed

The field of Waterloo.

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But this all know, and all shall know

While earth is rolling in her sphere;

While honor bids the soldier glow,

And glory crowns his sepulchre !

But o'er my harp one name shall swell-
The young, the brave, the kind, the true-
I knew him, and I loved him well;
He died at Waterloo!

Blackwood! I need not here proclaim
Thy blazoned shield, thy lineage high;
Let those who boast no better fame
Rake all they can from heraldry:
Enough for thee, thou hast achieved
A wreath of amaranthine hue :

Enough to live as thou hast lived

And fall at Waterloo.

Thy brow, on Lusitania's plain,

Its maiden laurel won and wore;

And many a hard-fought field of Spain
Beheld thee with the gallant MOORE:
A boy, thou bled'st at Badajoz,

And fought'st the glorious struggle thro:
Thy sun on Lusian mountains rose,
And set on Waterloo.

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Thy track was like a shooting star
Whose light made loftier planets dull;
And eyes are wet that hailed it far-
Alas, 'twas brief as beautiful!

The bolt that crossed thy brilliant way
Smote many a gentle bosom thro';
And many a hope was slain that day

With thee at Waterloo.