Go forth and prosper then, emprizing band: May He, who in the hollow of his hand The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind’s sweep, Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep! FAREWELL TO LOVE. I had a heart that doated once in passion’s boundless pain, And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break his chain; But now that Fancy’s fire is quenched, and ne’er can burn anew, I’ve bid to Love, for all my life, adieu! adieu! adieu! I’ve known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty’s thrall, And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all; But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty’s witching sway Is now to me a star that’s fall’n—a dream that’s passed away. Hail! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows roll, How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of soul! The wearied bird blown o’er the deep would sooner quit its shore, Than I would cross the gulf again that time has brought me o’er. Why say the Angels feel the flame?—Oh, spirits of the skies! Can love like ours, that doats on dust, in heavenly bosoms rise?— Ah no; the hearts that best have felt its power, the best can tell, That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid farewell. LINES ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRAYER, BY THE ARTIST GRUSE, IN THE POSSESSION OF LADY STEPNEY. Was man e’er doomed that beauty made By mimic art should haunt him? Like Orpheus, I adore a shade, And doat upon a phantom. Thou maid that in my inmost thought Art fancifully sainted, Why liv’st thou not—why art thou nought But canvass sweetly painted? Whose looks seem lifted to the skies, Too pure for love of mortals— As if they drew angelic eyes To greet thee at heaven’s portals. Yet loveliness has here no grace, Abstracted or ideal— Art ne’er but from a living face Drew looks so seeming real. What wert thou, maid?—thy life—thy name Oblivion hides in mystery; Though from thy face my heart could frame A long romantic history. Transported to thy time I seem, Though dust thy coffin covers— And hear the songs, in fancy’s dream, Of thy devoted lovers. How witching must have been thy breath— How sweet the living charmer— Whose very semblance after death Can make the heart grow warmer! Adieu, the charms that vainly move My soul in their possession— That prompt my lips to speak of love, Yet rob them of expression. Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised Was but a poet’s duty; And shame to him that ever gazed Impassive on thy beauty. STANZAS ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO. Hearts of oak that have bravely delivered the brave, And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave, ’Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save, That your thunderbolts swept o’er the brine; And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave The light of your glory shall shine.