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And leap o'er the bounds of his birth,

-But the cries of the fatherless mix with her To ravage the uttermost earth,

praise, And violate nations and realms that should be And the tears of the widow are shed on her bays. Distinct as the billows, yet one as the sea ?

O Britain ! dear Britain ! the land of my birth: There are, gloomy ocean, a brotherless clan,

O isle, most enchantingly fair ! Who traverse thy banishing waves,

Thou pearl of the ocean! thou gem of the earth! The poor disinherited outcasts of man,

O my mother! my mother! beware; Whom avarice coins into slaves.

For wealth is a phantom, and empire a snare; From the homes of their kindred, their forefathers' | O let not thy birthright be sold graves,

For reprobate glory and gold: Love, friendship, and conjugal bliss,

Thy distant dominions like wild graftings shoot, They are dragg'd on the hoary abyss;

They weigh down thy trunk,-they will tear up The shark hears their shrieks, and ascending to-day,

thy root:Demands of the spoiler his share of the prey. The root of thine OAK, O my country! that stands Then joy to the tempest that whelms them beneath,

Rock-planted and fourishing free;

Its branches are stretch'd o'er the uttermost lands, And makes their destruction its sport;

And its shadow eclipses the sea : But wo to the winds that propitiously breathe,

The blood of our ancestors nourish'd the tree; And waft them in safety to port,

From their tombs, from their ashes it sprung; Where the vultures and vampires of Mammon re

Its boughs with their trophies are hung; sort; Where Europe exultingly drains

Their spirit dwells in it:-and, hark! for it spoke; The life-blood from Africa's veins;

The voice of our fathers ascends from their oak:Where man rules o’er man with a merciless rod, “ Ye Britons, who dwell where we conquerd of old, And spurns at his footstool the image of God. Who inherit our battle-field graves;

Though poor were your fathers,-gigantic and bold, The hour is approaching—a terrible hour!

We were not, we could not be, slaves; And Vengeance is bending her bow;

But firm as our rocks, and as free as our waves, Already the clouds of the hurricane lower,

The spears of the Romans we broke, And the rock-rending whirlwinds blow:

We never stoop'd under their yoke; Back 10]ls the huge ocean, hell opens below:

In the shipwreck of nations we stood up alone,The floods return headlong,-they sweep

The world was great Cæsar's--but Britain our own. The slave-cultured lands to the deep, In a moment entomb'd in the horrible void, “For ages and ages, with barbarous foes, By their Maker himself in his anger destroy'd. The Saxon, Norwegian, and Gaul,

We wrestled, were foil'd, were cast down, but we Shall this be the fate of the cane-planted isles, More lovely than clouds in the west,

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; —The cruel, and cannibal mind, At the voice of thy gospel of

peace

We soften'd, subdued, and refined; May the sorrows of Africa cease;

Bears, wolves, and sea-monsters, they rush'd from And slave and his master devoutly unite

their den ; To walk in thy freedom, and dwell in thy light !*

We taught them, we tamed them, we turn'd them As homeward my weary-wing?d fancy extends, Her star-lighted course through the skies,

“ Love led the wild hordes in his flower-woven High over the mighty Atlantic ascends,

bands, And turns upon Europe her eyes :

The tenderest, strongest of chains; Ah, me! what new prospects, new horrors arise ? Love married our hearts, he united our hands, I see the war-tempested food

And mingled the blood in our veins; All foaming, and panting with blood;

One race we became :-on the mountains and plains, The panic-struck ocean in agony roars,

Where the wounds of our country were closed, Rebounds from the battle, and flies to his shores. The ark of religion reposed,

The unquenchable altar of liberty blazed, For Britannia is wielding the trident to-day

And the temple of justice in mercy was raised. Consuming her foes in her ire, And hurling her thunder with absolute sway “ Ark, altar, and temple, we left with our breath! From her wave-ruling chariots of fire:

To our children, a sacred bequest; -She triumphs ;-the winds and the waters con- guard them, o keep them, in life and in death! spire,

So the shades of your fathers shall rest, To spread her invincible name;

And your spirits with ours be in Paradise blest: -The universe rings with her fame;

-Let ambition, the sin of the brave,

And avarice, the soul of a slave, * Alluding to the glorious success of the Moravian mis

No longer seduce your affections to roam sionaries among the Negroes in the West Indies. From liberty, justice, religion, AT HOME.”

rose

ALL.

to men.

THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man ;-and WHO WAS HE?
--Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone:-

The weeping minstrel sings,

And, while her numbers flow, My spirit trembles with the strings,

Responsive to the notes of wo. Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,

And wake his wild harp's clearest tones, The chords, impatient to complain,

Are dumb, or only utter moans.
And yet, to soothe the mind

With luxury of grief,
The soul to suffering all resign'd

In sorrow's music feels relief.

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph’d in his breast:
His bliss and wo,-a smile, a tear!
--Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.
He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd,—but his delights are fled;
Had friends,-his friends are now no more;
And foes,-his foes are dead.

He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O she was fair-but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

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

. 0! 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,

And burst and blossom from the dead:
Of home, contentment, health, repose,

Serene delights, while years increase ; And weary life's triumphant close

In some calm sunset hour of peace ;

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; Encounter'd all that troubles thee; He was-whatever thou hast been ; He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of nim afford no other trace
Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!

Of bliss that reigns above,

Celestial May of youth, Unchanging as Jehovah's love,

And everlasting as his truth: Sing, heavenly Hope !--and dart thine hand

O’er my frail harp, untuned so long; That harp shall breathe, at thy command,

Immortal sweetness through thy song. Ah! then, this gloom control,

And at thy voice shall start A new creation in my soul,

A native Eden in my heart.

THE HARP OF SORROW.

POPE'S WILLOW.

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,

Snapt in their freshness by the blast: Of long, long years of future care,

Till lingering nature yields her breath, And endless ages of Jespair,

Beyond the judgment-day of death:-

Verses written for an urn, made out of the trunk of the

weeping willow, imporied 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,

And made the turf his pillow, The minstrel hung his harp in death

Upon the drooping willow;

That willow from Euphrates' strand, Had sprung beneath his training hand. Long as revolving seasons flew,

From youth to age it flourishd; By vernal winds and starlight dew,

By showers and sunbeams nourish'd ; And while in dust the poet slept, The willow o'er his ashes wept.

Old Time beheld his silvery head

With graceful grandeur towering, Its pensile boughs profusely spread,

The breezy lawn embowering, Till arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot A grove of scions from one root. Thither, at summer noon, he view'd

The lovely Nine retreating, Beneath its twilight solitude

With songs their poet greeting. Whose spirit in the willow spoke, Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.

Among thy loftiest laurels seen,
In deathless verse for ever green-
Thy chosen tree had stood sublime,

The storm of ages braving,
Triumphant o'er the wrecks of time

Its verdant banner waving,
While regal pyramids decay'd,
And empires perish'd in its shade.
An humbler lot, 0 tree! was thine,

--Gone down in all thy glory;
The sweet, the mournful task be mine,

To sing thy simple story;
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,

And call down fire from heaven,
To kindle in this hallow'd urn
A flame that would for ever burn.

THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A

FOREIGN LAND.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

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0, WHEN shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,

Our forests, our fountains,

Our hamlets, our mountains, With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore ? 0, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead, In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed? When shall I return to that lowly retreat, Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,The lambs and the heifers that follow my call,

My father, my mother,

My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all ? 0, when shall I visit the land of my birth? —'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

THE DIAL.

Deep to the willow's root it went,

And cleft the core asunder, Like sudden secret lightning, sent

Without recording thunder: --From that sad moment, slow away Began the willow to decay. In vain did spring those bowers restore,

Where loves and graces revellid, Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,

The thin gray leaves dishevell’d, And every wasting winter found The willow nearer to the ground.

Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,

At length the axe assail'd it:
It bow'd before the woodman's rage ;

--The swans of Thames bewail'd it, With softer tones, with sweeter breath, Than ever charm'd the ear of death.

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 sublime-

What 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
Right onward, with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till nature's race be run,
And time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun

O Pope! hadst thou, whose lyre so long

The wondering world enchanted, Amidst thy paradise of song

This weeping willow planted ;

Nor only o'er the dial's face,

Ten thousand voices answer, “ No!" This silent phantom, day by day,

Ye clasp your babes and kiss; With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o’erflow; Steals moments, months, and years away; Yet, ah! remember this; From hoary rock and aged tree,

The infant, rear'd alone for earth, From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, May live, may die,-to curse his birth; From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,

-Is this a mother's love?
From every blade of grass it falls.
For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,

A parent's heart may prove a snare;
The scythe of Time destroys.

The child she loves so well, And man at every footstep weeps

Her band may lead, with gentlest care, O’er evanescent joys;

Down the smooth road to hell;

Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind:
Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn
Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn.

Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
-Ah! soon, beneath th' inevitable blow,

Even with a mother's love. I, too, shall lie in dust and darkness low.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught Then Time, the conqueror, will suspend

Early to seek the Lord, His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,

And pour'd upon his dawning thought Whose moving shadow shall portend

The day-spring of the word;

This was the lesson to her son,
Each frail beholder's doom.
O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

-Time is eternity begun:
Though time's triumphant flight be shown,

Behold that mother's love." The truest index on its face

Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,
Points from the churchyard stone.

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, A MOTHER'S LOVE.

Begin eternity in time, A MOTHER's love,-how sweet the name!

Taught by that mother's love. What is a mother's love?

That mother's love how sweet the same! -A poble, pure, and tender flame,

What was that mother's love? Enkindled from above,

- The noblest, purest, tenderest flame, To bless a heart of earthly mould;

That kindles from above The warmest love that can grow cold;

Within a heart of earthly mould, This is a mother's love.

As much of heaven as heart can hold, To bring a helpless babe to light,

Nor through eternity grows cold: Then, while it lies forlorn,

This was that mother's love.
To gaze upon that dearest sight,

And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;

THE GLOW-WORM.
This is a mother's love.

The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the femare Its weakness in her arms to bear;

caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train. To cherish on her breast, Feed it from love's own fountain there,

When evening closes nature's eye, And lull it there to rest;

The glow-worm lights her little spark, Then while it slumbers watch its breath, As if to guard from instant death ;

To captivate her favourite fly, This is a mother's love.

And tempt the rover through the dark.

Conducted by a sweeter star
To mark its growth from day to day,

Than all that deck the fields above,
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray

He fondly hastens from afar,

To soothe her solitude with love.
Of intellectual fire;
To smile and listen while it talks,

Thus in this wilderness of tears,
And lend a finger when it walks ;

Amidst the world's perplexing gloom, This is a mother's love.

The transient torch of Hymen cheers And can a mother's love grow cold ?

The pilgrim journeying to the tomb. Can she forget her boy?

Unhappy he whose hopeless eye His pleading innocence behold,

Turns to the light of love in vain ; Nor weep for grief-for joy!

Whose cynosure is in the sky,
A mother may forget her child,

He on the dark and lonely main.
While wolves devour it on the wild ;
-Is this a mother's love?

* 2 Tim. i. 5, and iii. 14, 15.

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HUMAN LIFE.

Job xiv. How few and evil are thy days, Man, of a woman born! Trouble and peril haunt thy ways: -Forth like a flower at morn, The tender infant springs to light, Youth blossoms with the breeze, Age, withering age, is cropt ere night; -Man like a shadow flees.

THRICE welcome, little English flower!
My mother country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
S-range as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.

And dost Thou look on such a one?
Will God to judgment call
A worm, for what a worm hath done
Against the Lord of all ?
As fail the waters from the deep,
As summer brooks run dry,
Man lieth down in dreamless sleep;
-Our life is vanity.

Thrice welcome, little English flower,
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year;
Thou, only thou, art little bere,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.

Man lieth down, no more to wake,
Till yonder arching sphere
Shall with a roll of thunder break,
And nature disappear.
-0! hide me, till thy wrath be past,
Thou, who canst kill or save;
Hide me, where hope may anchor fast
In my Redeemer's grave.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be;

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