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TO THOMAS MOORE.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
Here's a sigh to those who love me,
Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on: Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.
Were't the last drop in the well,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.
CHILDE HAROLD'S DEPARTURE.
(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto i. Stanzas 4-11.)
CHILDE HAROLD bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Nor deem'd before his little day was done
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.
The Childe departed from his father's hall :
It was a vast and venerable pile;
So old, it seemed only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle.
Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below:
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.
And none did love him-though to hall and bower
He gather'd revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;
Yea! none did love him-not his lemans dear-
And Mammon wins his ways where Seraphs might despair.
Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot,
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel :
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line.
COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM.
CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,
But show where rocks our path have crost,
Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
I hear a voice exclaim
My way-worn countryman, who calls
A shot is fired-by foe or friend?
The mountain-peasants to descend,
Oh! who in such a night will dare
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear
Our signal of distress?
And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries
That outlaws were abroad.
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm.
While wand'ring through each broken path, O'er brake and craggy brow;
While elements exhaust their wrath,
Sweet Florence, where art thou?