The tide of fate rolls on! heart-pierced and pale, The gallant soldier lies,[1] nor aught avail, The shield, the sword, the spirit of the brave, From rapine's armed hand thy vales to save,...
Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere! Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat...
With mirth unfeigned the cottage chimney rings, Though only vocal with four fiddle-strings: And see, the poor blind fiddler draws his bow, And lifts intent his time-denoting toe;...
If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave, Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved To pass delighted from her green abode, And, seated on a summer bank, to sing No earthly music; in a spot like this,...
Look at those sleeping children; softly tread, Lest thou do mar their dream, and come not nigh Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry, 'Tis morn, awake! awake! Ah! they are dead!...
So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage! Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried, Liberty! and the shores, from age to age Renowned, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied,...
Call the strange spirit that abides unseen In wilds, and wastes, and shaggy solitudes, And bid his dim hand lead thee through these scenes That burst immense around! By mountains, glens,...
When anxious Spain, along her rocky shore, From cliff to cliff returned the sea-fight's roar; When flash succeeding flash, tremendous broke The haze incumbent, and the clouds of smoke,...
Turn to Britannia's triumphs on the main: See Nelson, pale and fainting, 'mid the slain, Whilst Victory sighs, stern in the garb of war, And points through clouds the rocks of Trafalgar!...
Peace, oh! peace, be to the shade Of him who here in earth is laid: Saints and spirits of the blessed, Look upon his bed of rest; Forgive his sins, propitious be; Dona pacem, Domine,...
Yes! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white Above the wave, once more my beating heart...
On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet Hear not the surge that has for ages beat, How many a lonely wanderer has stood!...
Shouts, and the noise of war! Far o'er the land hath been my flight, O'er many a forest dark as night, O'er champaigns where the Tartar speeds, O'er Wolga's wild and giant reeds,...
When I lie musing on my bed alone, And listen to the wintry waterfall;[1] And many moments that are past and gone, Moments of sunshine and of joy, recall;
A poor old soldier shall not lie unknown, Without a verse, and this recording stone. 'Twas his in youth o'er distant lands to stray, Danger and death companions of his way....
Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true; The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed, Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed;...