There widows reft, and orphans wanting bread,
Weep for a husband or a father dead ;



268 MISCELLANEOUS.
Nor blooming youth, nor sacred age he spares,
But each alike with his dethroner fares.
Alas ! to me how sad the din of war,
That sends its dread alarum from afar !
Each coming day adds to the tale of strife,
And nature sickens at the waste of life.
O, that the reign of slaughter might be o'er,
And earth be drenched with human blood no more.
But see, the moon has sunk behind the hill,
The stars grow dim, and night's lone bird is still ;
The east is flecked with golden streaks of light,
And day resumes his sceptre from the night ;
My weary muse turns from her task in peace ;
Oh, could she bid the wars of passion cease,
And point the hopes of man to that blest day,
When all the ills of earth shall flee away ! ms.
TO LORD BYRON.
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF HIS POEMS.
Hail, noble bard ! I know thee well !
I know thee by thy potent spell,
That twines around thy burning verse,
Imperious, rapid, bold and terse.
Dark minstrel ! well I love thy lines,



MISCELLANEOUS. 269

When free, undaunted genius shines !

I loved them when thy youthful muse

First drank Castalia's limpid dews,

And when through knighthood's realm she strayed,

And sung the havoc war had made •

And when she roamed through wisdom's clime,

And viewed Parnassus' tower sublime ;

And when she strayed through eastern dells,

The clime where dark-eyed beauty dwells !

Thy numbers speak a soul divine,

Though dark as Ebli's gloomy mine !

Its thoughts abrupt as Calpe's steep,

Its numbers wild, intense and deep.
