Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 54, No. 334, August 1843. Various

fortune to the Honest, and

      Confusion to the Lying!

      Chorus—Draw closer in the holy ring,

      Sworn by the wine-cup's golden river—

      Sworn by the Stars, and by their King,

      To keep our vow for ever!

      The Invincible Armada

      She comes, she comes—the Burthen of the Deeps!

      Beneath her wails the Universal Sea!

      With clanking chains and a new God, she sweeps,

      And with a thousand thunders, unto thee!

      The ocean-castles and the floating hosts—

      Ne'er on their like, look'd the wild waters!—Well

      May man the monster name "Invincible."

      O'er shudd'ring waves she gathers to thy coasts!

      The horror that she spreads can claim

      Just title to her haughty name.

      The trembling Neptune quails

      Under the silent and majestic forms;

      The Doom of Worlds in those dark sails;—

      Near and more near they sweep! and slumber all the Storms

      Before thee the array,

      Blest island, Empress of the Sea!

      The sea-born squadrons threaten thee,

      And thy great heart, Britannia!

      Woe to thy people, of their freedom proud—

      She rests, a thunder heavy in its cloud!

      Who, to thy hand the orb and sceptre gave,

      That thou should'st be the sovereign of the nations?

      To tyrant kings thou wert thyself the slave,

      Till Freedom dug from Law its deep foundations;

      The mighty CHART thy citizens made kings,

      And kings to citizens sublimely bow'd!

      And thou thyself, upon thy realm of water,

      Hast thou not render'd millions up to slaughter,

      When thy ships brought upon their sailing wings

      The sceptre—and the shroud?

      What should'st thou thank?—Blush, Earth, to hear and feel:

      What should'st thou thank?—Thy genius and thy steel.

      Behold the hidden and the giant fires!

      Behold thy glory trembling to its fall!

      Thy coming doom the round earth shall appall,

      And all the hearts of freemen beat for thee,

      And all free souls their fate in shine foresee—

      Theirs is thy glory's fall!

      One look below the Almighty gave,

      Where stream'd the lion-flags of thy proud foe;

      And near and wider yawn'd the horrent grave.

      "And who," saith HE, "shall lay mine England low—

      The stem that blooms with hero-deeds—

      The rock when man from wrong a refuge needs—

      The stronghold where the tyrant comes in vain?

      Who shall bid England vanish from the main?

      Ne'er be this only Eden freedom knew,

      Man's stout defence from Power, to Fate consign'd."

      God the Almighty blew,

      And the Armada went to every wind!

      The Conflict

      No! I this conflict longer will not wage,

      The conflict Duty claims—the giant task;—

      Thy spells, O Virtue, never can assuage

      The heart's wild fire—this offering do not ask!

      True, I have sworn—a solemn vow have sworn,

      That I myself will curb the self within;

      Yet take thy wreath, no more it shall be worn—

      Take back thy wreath, and leave me free to sin.

      Rent be the contract I with thee once made;—

      She loves me, loves me—forfeit be thy crown!

      Blest he who, lull'd in rapture's dreamy shade,

      Glides, as I glide, the deep fall gladly down.

      She sees the worm that my youth's bloom decays,

      She sees my springtime wasted as it flees;

      And, marv'ling at the rigour that gainsays

      The heart's sweet impulse, my reward decrees.

      Distrust this angel purity, fair soul!

      It is to guilt thy pity armeth me;

      Could Being lavish its unmeasured whole,

      It ne'er could give a gift to rival Thee!

      Thee—the dear guilt I ever seek to shun,

      O tyranny of fate, O wild desires!

      My virtue's only crown can but be won

      In that last breath—when virtue's self expires!

      Resignation

      And I, too, was amidst Arcadia born,

      And Nature seem'd to woo me;

      And to my cradle such sweet joys were sworn:

      And I, too, was amidst Arcadia born,

      Yet the short spring gave only tears unto me!

      Life but one blooming holiday can keep—

      For me the bloom is fled;

      The silent Genius of the Darker Sleep

      Turns down my torch—and weep, my brethren, weep—

      Weep, for the light is dead!

      Upon thy bridge the shadows round me press,

      O dread Eternity!

      And I have known no moment that can bless;—

      Take back this letter meant for Happiness—

      The seal's unbrokenen—see!

      Before thee, Judge, whose eyes the dark-spun veil

      Conceals, my murmur came;

      On this our orb a glad belief prevails,

      That, thine the earthly sceptre and the scales,

      Requiter is thy name.

      Terrors, they say, thou cost for Vice prepare,

      And joys the good shall know;

      Thou canst the crooked heart unmask and bare;

      Thou canst the riddle of our fate declare,

      And keep account with Woe.

      With thee a home smiles for the exiled one—

      There ends the thorny strife.

      Unto my side a godlike vision won,

      Called Truth, (few know her, and the many shun,)

      And check'd the reins of life.

      "I will repay thee in a holier land—

      Give thou to me thy youth;

      All I can grant thee lies in this command."

      I heard, and, trusting in a holier land,

      Gave