And ye who attend her imperial car,
Lift not your hands in the banded war,

But in her defence whose children ye are.

Glory, glory, glory,

To those who have greatly suffered and done!
Never name in story

Was greater than that which ye shall have won. Conquerors have conquered their foes alone,

Whose revenge, pride, and power they have overthrown : Ride ye, more victorious, over your own.

Bind, bind every brow

With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine :

Hide the blood-stains now

With hues which sweet nature has made divine:

Green strength, azure hope, and eternity :
But let not the pansy among them be ;

Ye were injured, and that means memory.

THE INDIAN SERENADE.

I.

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me who knows how?

To thy chamber window, Sweet!

II.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream
And the Champak's odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart;

As I must on thine,

O! beloved as thou art!

III.

O lift me from the grass!

I die! I faint! I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas !
My heart beats loud and fast;

Oh! press it to thine own again,

Where it will break at last.

TO SOPHIA.

I.

THOU art fair, and few are fairer,

Of the nymphs of earth or ocean.

They are robes that fit the wearer

Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion Ever falls and shifts and glances,

As the life within them dances.

II.

Thy deep eyes, a double planet,

Gaze the wisest into madness

With soft clear fire. The winds that fan it Are those thoughts of gentle gladness

Which, like zephyrs on the billow,

Make thy gentle soul their pillow.

III.

If whatever face thou paintest

In those eyes grows pale with pleasure, If the fainting soul is faintest

When it hears thy harp's wild measure, Wonder not that, when thou speakest, Of the weak my heart is weakest.

IV.

As dew beneath the wind of morning,
As the sea which whirlwinds waken,
As the birds at thunder's warning,

As aught mute but deeply shaken,
As one who feels an unseen spirit,
Is my heart when thine is near it.

Ir lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,

Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine;
Below, far lands are seen tremblingly;
Its horror and its beauty are divine.
Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of death.

II.

Yet it is less the horror than the grace

Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone;
Whereon the lineaments of that dead face
Are graven, till the characters be grown
Into itself, and thought no more can trace;

'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown
Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain,
Which humanize and harmonize the strain.

III.

And from its head as from one body grow,

As

grass out of a watery rock,