But my soul revived at seeing Ocean, like an emerald spark, Kindle, while an air-dropt being Smiling steered my bark. Heaven-like—yet he looked as human As supernal beauty can, More compassionate than woman Lordly more than man. And as some sweet clarion’s breath Stirs the soldier’s scorn of death— So his accents bade me brook The spectre’s eyes of icy look, Till it shut them—turned its head, Like a beaten foe, and fled. “Types not this,” I said, “fair spirit! That my death-hour is not come? Say, what days shall I inherit?— Tell my soul their sum.” “No,” he said, “yon phantom’s aspect, Trust me, would appal thee worse, Held in clearly measured prospect:— Ask not for a curse! Make not, for I overhear Thine unspoken thoughts as clear As thy mortal ear could catch The close-brought tickings of a watch— Make not the untold request That’s now revolving in thy breast. “’Tis to live again, remeasuring Youth’s years, like a scene rehearsed, In thy second life-time treasuring Knowledge from the first. Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver! Life’s career so void of pain, As to wish its fitful fever New begun again? Could experience, ten times thine, Pain from Being disentwine— Threads by Fate together spun? Could thy flight Heaven’s lightning shun? No, nor could thy foresight’s glance ’Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. “Would’st thou bear again Love’s trouble— Friendship’s death-dissevered ties; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble Of Ambition’s prize? Say thy life’s new guided action Flowed from Virtue’s fairest springs— Still would Envy and Detraction Double not their stings? Worth itself is but a charter To be mankind’s distinguished martyr.” I caught the moral, and cried, “Hail! Spirit! let us onward sail, Envying, fearing, hating none— Guardian Spirit, steer me on!” LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Invincible romantic Scotia’s shore! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth! And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore! And be it deemed not wrong that name to give, In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh! Who would not envy such as Moore to live? And died he not as heroes wish to die? Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal, To us his bright career too short was given; Yet in a mighty cause his phœnix soul Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven! How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!—How oft on far Corunna’s plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!