For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil? No! your lofty emprize was to fetter and foil The uprooter of Greece’s domain! When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, Till her famished sank pale as the slain! Yet, Navarin’s heroes! does Christendom breed The base hearts that will question the fame of your deed Are they men?—let ineffable scorn be their meed, And oblivion shadow their graves!— Are they women?—to Turkish serails let them speed! And be mothers of Mussulman slaves. Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas’s shore? That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more By the hand of Infanticide grasped? And that stretched on yon billows distained by their gore Missolonghi’s assassins have gasped? Prouder scene never hallowed war’s pomp to the mind, Than when Christendom’s pennons wooed social the wind, And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, Their watch-word, humanity’s vow;— Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind Owes a garland to honour his brow! Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall, Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul; For whose was the genius, that planned at its call, Where the whirlwind of battle should roll? All were brave! but the star of success over all Was the light of our Codrington’s soul. That star of the day-spring, regenerate Greek! Dimmed the Saracen’s moon, and struck pallid his cheek; In its first flushing morning thy Muses shall speak When their lore and their lutes they reclaim: And the first of their songs from Parnassus’s peak Shall be “_Glory to Codrington’s name!_” LINES ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. Adieu the woods and waters’ side Imperial Danube’s rich domain! Adieu the grotto, wild and wide, The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain! For pallid Autumn once again Hath swelled each torrent of the hill; Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, And watery winds that sweep the vale, Grow loud and louder still. But not the storm, dethroning fast Yon monarch oak of massy pile; Nor river roaring to the blast Around its dark and desert isle; Nor church-bell[86] tolling to beguile The cloud-born thunder passing by, Can sound in discord to my soul: Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll! And rage, thou darkened sky! Thy blossoms now no longer bright; Thy withered woods no longer green Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight I visit thy unlovely scene! For many a sunset hour serene My steps have trod thy mellow dew; When his green light the fire-fly gave, When Cynthia from the distant wave Her twilight anchor drew,