« ZurückWeiter »
I stole her hand,-it shrunk,—but no;
Not with a warmer, purer ray,
But, swifter than the frighted dove,
The angel of affliction rose,
Yet, in the glory of my pride,
I stood, and all his wrath defied;
I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain, And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.
I shunn'd my nymph;-and knew not why
I shunn'd her-for I could not bear
Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
"Twas on a merry morn of May,
Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I saw the village steeple rise,-
I love a rustic holiday.
I met a wedding,-stepp'd aside;
-There is a grief that cannot feel;
It leaves a wound that will not heal;
-My heart grew cold,-it felt not then: When shall it cease to feel again?
WRITTEN AT SCARBOROUGH, IN THE SUMMER OF 1805.
ALL hail to the ruins,* the rocks and the shores!
Or dive in the gulf, or triumphantly ride,
From the tumult and smoke of the city set free,
From the crest of the mountain I gaze upon thee;
For mine eye is illumined, my genius takes flight,
And moves on thy waters, wherever they roll, From the day-darting zone to the night-shadow'd pole.
My spirit descends where the day-spring is born, Where the billows are rubies on fire,
And the breezes that rock the light cradle of morn
O regions of beauty, of love, and desire!
Placed far on the fathomless main,
Where nature with innocence dwelt in her youth,
But now the fair rivers of Paradise wind
Beneath his broad footstep the Ganges is dry,
And the mountains recoil from the flash of his eye.
Thus the pestilent Upas, the demon of trees,
Its boughs o'er the wilderness spreads,
And with livid contagion polluting the breeze,
The birds on the wing, and the flowers in their beds,
That darkens the noonday with death,
And pale ghosts of travellers wander around,
Ah! why hath JEHOVAH, in forming the world,
His ramparts of rocks round the continent hurl'd,
If man may transgress his eternal command,
* Scarborough Castle.
And leap o'er the bounds of his birth,
And violate nations and realms that should be
Love, friendship, and conjugal bliss,
The shark hears their shrieks, and ascending to-day,
There are, gloomy ocean, a brotherless clan,
The poor disinherited outcasts of man,
From the homes of their kindred, their forefathers' O let not thy birthright be sold
For reprobate glory and gold:
Thy distant dominions like wild graftings shoot, They weigh down thy trunk,-they will tear up thy root:
As homeward my weary-wing'd fancy extends,
Ah, me! what new prospects, new horrors arise?
All foaming, and panting with blood;
The panic-struck ocean in agony roars,
For Britannia is wielding the trident to-day
-But the cries of the fatherless mix with her praise,
And the tears of the widow are shed on her bays.
Shall this be the fate of the cane-planted isles,
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
May the sorrows of Africa cease;
To walk in thy freedom, and dwell in thy light!*
To spread her invincible name;
-The universe rings with her fame;
O Britain! dear Britain! the land of my birth:
Thou pearl of the ocean! thou gem of the earth!
The root of thine OAK, O my country! that stands
Its branches are stretch'd o'er the uttermost lands,
The blood of our ancestors nourish'd the tree;
"Ye Britons, who dwell where we conquer'd of old,
Though poor were your fathers,-gigantic and bold,
In the shipwreck of nations we stood up alone,-
We wrestled, were foil'd, were cast down, but we
-The cruel, and cannibal mind,
Bears, wolves, and sea-monsters, they rush'd from
We taught them, we tamed them, we turn'd them
"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,
And the temple of justice in mercy was raised.
And hurling her thunder with absolute sway
Ark, altar, and temple, we left with our breath
-She triumphs;-the winds and the waters con- O guard them, O keep them, in life and in death!
So the shades of your fathers shall rest,
And your spirits with ours be in Paradise blest:
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.”
THE COMMON LOT.
ONCE in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man ;-and WHO WAS HE?
Unknown the region of his birth,
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;
Had friends, his friends are now no more;
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, 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.
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,
O! snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand,
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;
Of bliss that reigns above,
And everlasting as his truth:
Sing, heavenly Hope!--and dart thine hand
Ah! then, this gloom control,
THE HARP OF SORROW.
I GAVE my harp to Sorrow's hand,
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:
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 tuncful breath,
THIS shadow on the dial's face,
Since light and motion first began,
What is it?-Mortal man!
And still, through each succeeding year
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.
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,
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,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray
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!"
Ye clasp your babes and kiss;
The infant, rear'd alone for earth,
A parent's heart may prove a snare;
Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Behold that mother's love.*
Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,
And know the fear of God:
Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,
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 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.