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?[57] 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. In hope or fear, in toil or pain, The weary day have mortals pass’d; Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign, And all your spells around them cast; Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear, And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. Oh, 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: Whore 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. [57] Vide Annotation from _Quarterly Review_, p. 62. TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL SIR E--D P--K--M.[58] 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 mead 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 Vitoria’s blood-red plain, Meet had thy deathbed been.