And leap o'er the bounds of his birth, To ravage the uttermost earth, And violate nations and realms that should be There are, gloomy ocean, a brotherless clan, -But the cries of the fatherless mix with her praise, And the tears of the widow are shed on her bays. O Britain dear Britain! the land of my birth: Thou pearl of the ocean! thou gem of the earth! From the homes of their kindred, their forefathers' O let not thy birthright be sold graves, Love, friendship, and conjugal bliss, The shark hears their shrieks, and ascending to-day, Where the vultures and vampires of Mammon resort; Where Europe exultingly drains Where man rules o'er man with a merciless rod, The hour is approaching-a terrible hour! In a moment entomb'd in the horrible void, Shall this be the fate of the cane-planted isles, For reprobate glory and gold: Thy distant dominions like wild graftings shoot, They weigh down thy trunk,-they will tear up thy root: The root of thine OAK, O my country! that stands Rock-planted and flourishing free; Its branches are stretch'd o'er the uttermost lands, The blood of our ancestors nourish'd the tree; Though poor were your fathers,-gigantic and bold, But firm as our rocks, and as free as our waves, We never stoop'd under their yoke; In the shipwreck of nations we stood up alone,- We wrestled, were foil'd, were cast down, but we rose With new vigour, new life, from each fall: When the sun o'er the ocean descending in smiles, By all we were conquer'd-WE CONQUER'D THEM Sinks softly and sweetly to rest? -No-Father of mercy! befriend the opprest; May the sorrows of Africa cease; To walk in thy freedom, and dwell in thy light!* As homeward my weary-wing'd fancy extends, Ah, me! what new prospects, new horrors arise? All foaming, and panting with blood; For Britannia is wielding the trident to-day And hurling her thunder with absolute sway spire, To spread her invincible name; -The universe rings with her fame; ALL. -The cruel, and cannibal mind, We soften'd, subdued, and refined; Bears, wolves, and sea-monsters, they rush'd from their den; We taught them, we tamed them, we turn'd them to men. "Love led the wild hordes in his flower-woven bands, The tenderest, strongest of chains; Love married our hearts, he united our hands, One race we became :-on the mountains and plains, The unquenchable altar of liberty blazed, "Ark, altar, and temple, we left with our breath! con- O guard them, O keep them, in life and in death! *Alluding to the glorious success of the Moravian missionaries among the Negroes in the West Indies. That joy and grief, and hope and fear, The bounding pulse, the languid limb, He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er; He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave He saw whatever thou hast seen; The rolling seasons, day and night, The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye The annals of the human race, The weeping minstrel sings, And, while her numbers flow, Would gladness move a sprightlier strain, And yet, to soothe the mind With luxury of grief, In sorrow's music feels relief. Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire, And on its magic pulses play; Till all the air around Mysterious murmurs fill, A strange bewildering dream of sound, Most heavenly sweet,--yet mournful still O! snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand, Hope! who hast been a stranger long; O strike it with sublime command, And be the poet's life thy song. Of vanish'd troubles sing, Of fears for ever fled, Of flowers that hear the voice of spring, In some calm sunset hour of peace; Sing, heavenly Hope !--and dart thine hand Ah! then, this gloom control, And at thy voice shall start THE HARP OF SORROW. I GAVE my harp to Sorrow's hand, And she has ruled the chords so long, They will not speak at my command ;-They warble only to her song. Of dear, departed hours, Too fondly loved to last, The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers, Of long, long years of future care, Beyond the judgment-day of death :- POPE'S WILLOW. Verses written for an urn, made out of the trunk of the weeping willow, imported from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years; but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down. ERE Pope resign'd his tuneful breath, By harvest moonlight there he spied One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree Be vengeance now my calm employ,- He spake, and struck a silent blow With that dread arm whose motion In vain did spring those bowers restore, Hoary, and weak, and bent with age, O Pope! hadst thou, whose lyre so long Amidst thy paradise of song This weeping willow planted; Among thy loftiest laurels seen, Thy chosen tree had stood sublime, Though verse like mine in vain would raise The fame of thy departed days. Yet, fallen willow! if to me Such power of song were given, My lips should breathe a soul through thee, A flame that would for ever burn. THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A FOREIGN LAND. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH. O, WHEN shall I visit the land of my birth, Our hamlets, our mountains, My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all? THE DIAL. THIS shadow on the dial's face, That steals from day to day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace, Moments, and months, and years away; This shadow, which, in every clime, Since light and motion first began, Hath held its course sublimeWhat is it?-Mortal man! It is the scythe of time: -A shadow only to the eye; Yet, in its calm career, It levels all beneath the sky; And still, through each succeeding year Till nature's race be run, And time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun Nor only o'er the dial's face, This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace, Steals moments, months, and years away; From hoary rock and aged tree, From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea, From every blade of grass it falls. For still, where'er a shadow sweeps, The scythe of Time destroys. And man at every footstep weeps O'er evanescent joys; Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn Then Time, the conqueror, will suspend His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb, Whose moving shadow shall portend Each frail beholder's doom. O'er the wide earth's illumined space, Though time's triumphant flight be shown, The truest index on its face Points from the churchyard stone. A MOTHER'S LOVE. A MOTHER'S love,-how sweet the name! What is a mother's love? -A noble, pure, and tender flame, Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould; To bring a helpless babe to light, In its existence lose her own, And live and breathe in it alone; This is a mother's love. Its weakness in her arms to bear; To cherish on her breast, Feed it from love's own fountain there, And lull it there to rest; Then while it slumbers watch its breath, To mark its growth from day to day, To smile and listen while it talks, And can a mother's love grow cold? Can she forget her boy? Ten thousand voices answer, "No!" The infant, rear'd alone for earth, A parent's heart may prove a snare; Even with a mother's love. Blest infant! whom his mother taught Early to seek the Lord, And pour'd upon his dawning thought The day-spring of the word; This was the lesson to her son, -Time is eternity begun : Behold that mother's love.* Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path, By her own parent trod, Thus taught her son to flee the wrath, And know the fear of God: Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime, Begin eternity in time, Taught by that mother's love. That mother's love!-how sweet the name! -The noblest, purest, tenderest flame, Within a heart of earthly mould, As much of heaven as heart can hold, THE GLOW-WORM. The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train. WHEN evening closes nature's eye, The glow-worm lights her little spark, To captivate her favourite fly, And tempt the rover through the dark. Conducted by a sweeter star Than all that deck the fields above, He fondly hastens from afar, To soothe her solitude with love. Thus in this wilderness of tears, Turns to the light of love in vain ; * 2 Tim. i. 5, and iii. 14, 15. THE OAK. IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO. THE tall oak, towering to the skies, O'erwhelm'd at length upon the plain, THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS. Though I have seen thy form depart Ha! those small voices, silver sweet! THE BIBLE. WHAT is the world?-A wildering maze, All broad, and winding, and aslope, Millions of pilgrims throng those roads, Down to eternal night: -One humble path, that never bends, Is there a guide to show that path? The Bible, need not stray: THE DAISY IN INDIA. Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, the learn ed and illustrious Baptist missionary at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprang up unex pectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. With great care and nursing, the doctor has been enabled to perpetuate the daisy in India, as an annual only, raised by seed preserved from season to season. HUMAN LIFE. How few and evil are thy days, Trouble and peril haunt thy ways: And dost thou look on such a one? Will God to judgment call A worm, for what a worm hath done As fail the waters from the deep, Man lieth down in dreamless sleep; Man lieth down, no more to wake, -O! hide me, till thy wrath be past, Hide me, where hope may anchor fast In my Redeemer's grave. THRICE Welcome, little English flower! Thrice welcome, little English flower! Shut close their leaves while vapours lower; Thrice welcome, little English flower, Thrice welcome, little English flower! |