Give him the Nectar!

Pour out for the Poet!

Hebe! pour free!

Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,

That Styx the destested no more he may view,

And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be ! Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Pæan, I cry ! The Wine of the Immortals

Forbids me to die!

T2

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

Written in America, in the year 1810.*

ALL hail! thou noble Land,

Our Fathers' native soil!

O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore :

For thou with magic might

Canst reach to where the light

Of Phœbus travels bright

The world o'er!

The Genius of our clime,

From his pine-embattled steep,

Shall hail the guest sublime ;

While the Tritons of the deep

With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.

Then let the world combine

O'er the main our Naval Line

Like the milky way shall shine
Bright in fame !

Though ages long have past

Since our Fathers left their home,

Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravell'd seas to roam,

Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!

And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?

While the language free and bold
Which the Bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of Heaven rung
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with rev'rence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,

That mould a nation's soul,

Still cling around our hearts

Between let ocean roll,

Our joint communion breaking with the Sun :

Yet still from either beach

The voice of blood shall reach,

More audible than speech,

ELEGY,

Imitated from one of Akenside's Blank-verse Inscriptions.

NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread,

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,

Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bed

O humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain !

And there his spirit most delights to rove : Young Edmund! fam'd for each harmonious strain, And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume,
His manhood blossom'd; till the faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue !
Wheree'er with wildered steps she wandered pale,
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,
Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.