Moral and Sacred Poetry

But soon as approaching the land

That goddess-like woman he viewed, The scourge he let fall from his hand, With blood of his subjects imbrued. I saw him both sicken and die,

And the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts, that ascended the sky,

From thousands with rapture inspired.

Awaking how could I but muse

At what such a dream should betide?
But soon my ear caught the glad news,
Which served my weak thought for a
guide-

That Britannia, renowned o'er the waves
For the hatred, she ever has shown,
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,
Resolves to have none of her own.

THE ABOLITION OF SLAVERY.

MONTGOMERY.

HIGH on her rock, in solitary state, Sublimely musing, pale Britannia sate; Her awful forehead on her spear reclined, Her robe and tresses streaming with the wind;

Chill through her frame foreboding tremors crept;

The mother thought upon her sons, and wept:

In Glory's circling arms the hero bled, While Victory bound the laurel on his head; At once immortal, in both worlds, became His soaring spirit and abiding name: -She thought of Pitt, heart-broken, on his ⚫ bier ;

And "O my Country!" echoed in her ear: -She thought of Fox;-she heard him faintly speak,

His parting breath grew cold проп her cheek, His dying accents trembled into air; "Spare injured Africa! the Negro spare!" She started from her trance!-and, round

the shore,

Beheld her supplicating sons once more, Pleading the suit so long, so vainly tried, Renew'd, resisted, promised, pledged, denied,―

The Negro's claim to all his Maker gave, And all the tyrant ravished trom the slave: Her yielding heart confess'd the righteous claim,

Sorrow had soften'd it, and love o'ercame; Shame flush'd her noble cheek, her bosom

burn'd;

To helpless, hopeless, Africa she turn'd; She saw her sister in the Mourner's face, And rush'd with tears into her dark embrace. "All hail!" exclaim'd the Empress of the sea, "Thy chains are broken, Africa be free!" "All hail!" replied the Mourner, "She who broke

-She thought of Nelson in the battle slain, My bonds, shall never wear a stranger's

yoke."

And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none to bless us, none whom we can

bless;

I would not be a leaf to die,
Without recording sorrow's sigh.

Minions of splendour shrinking from dis- The woods and winds, with sudden wail,

MELANCHOLY.

COWPER.

LOOK where he comes-in this embowered
alcove

Stand close concealed, and see a statue move:
Lips basy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow,
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped be-
low,

Interpret to the marking eye distress,
Such as its symptoms can alone express.
That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue
Conld argue once, could jest or join the song,
Could give advice, could censure or com-
mend,

Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.
Renounced alike its office and its sport,
Its brisker and its graver strains fell short;
Both fail'd beneath a fever's secret sway,
And like a summer-brook are past away.
This is a sight for pity to peruse,
Till she resemble faintly what she views,
Till sympathy contract a kindred pain,
Pierced with the woes that she laments in
vain.

This, of all maladies that man infest,
Claims most compassion, and receives the
least:

Job felt it, when he groaned beneath the rod
And the barbed arrows of a frowning God;
And such emollients as his friends could
spare,

Friends such as his for modern Jobs
prepare.
Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never
feel,

But with a soul that ever felt the sting
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing:
Not to molest, or irritate, or raise
A laugh at his expense, is slender praise;
He, that has not usurped the name of man,
Does all, and deems too little, all he can,
T'assuage the throbbings of the festered
part,

And stanch the bleedings of a broken heart.
'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose,
Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes;
Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight,
Each yielding harmony disposed aright;
The screws reversed (a task which if he please
God in a moment executes with ease,)
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go
loose,

Lost, till he tune them, all their power and

use.

Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair
As ever recompensed the peasant's care,
Nor soft declivities with tufted hills,
Nor view of waters turning busy mills,
Parks in which art preceptress nature weds,
Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds,
Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming
groves,

And waft it to the mourner as he roves,
Can call up life into his faded eye,
That passes all he sees unheeded by:
No wounds like those a wounded spirit fecis,
No cure for such, till God who makes them,
heals.

And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill,
That yields not to the touch of human skill,

Kept snug in caskets of close hammered Improve the kind occasion, understand

Yet seek him, in his favour life is found,
All bliss beside a shadow or a sound:
Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull
earth,

Shall seem to start into a second birth!
Nature, assuming a more lovely face,
Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace,
Shall be despised and overlooked no more,
Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before,
Impart to things inanimate a voice,.
And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice;
The sound shall run along the winding vales,
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails.

PETRARCH.

FATHER of heaven! full many a wasted day, And weary, wakeful night, this heart hath

worn

In one bright vision, waning now away, And leaving it all desolate, forlorn. O with thy gracious light, direct my feet To a more peaceful way,-a nobler love! Gnide thou a wanderer to that bless'd retreat, The clouds and cares of this dark world above.

For Thou, my Lord, hast seen year after year Roll on in sadness, since this heart of mine Bow'd to that yoke alike on all severe; Now, weak and faint, I ask thy hand divine To fix each rebel thought, and vagrant tear, Saviour of all! upon that cross of thine!

THE EOLIAN HARP.

ANON.

I NEVER hear that plaintive sigh,
Borne on the trembling zephyrs' wings,

But fancy paints some spirit nigh,

Who breathes in rapture o'er thy strings; Some minstrel sylph or fairy power, Whose music charms in lonely hour.

Æolian harp! the magic swell,

That lingers midst thy sounding wire, On whose wild notes I love to dwell,

Could aught but angel voice inspire? Could mortal voice so sweetly sing, Or raise the soul on fancy's wing?

Ah! no-No mortal voice e'er sung
A strain so soft, a breath so light;
No chord such witching numbers rung,
But what was tuned by airy sprite;
Some seraph wanderer of the sky,
Who sighs the note of melody.

In vesper hour no requiem swell,

Borne on the breezes of the night, On which the pious crowd would dwell, To waft the soul to realms of light, E'er threw around such magic power, Or breath'd more sweet in lonely hour.

That song
is o'er; the breeze of night
Shall sweep in silence o'er the strings;
And, ah! that breath, so soft, so light,

Shall mourn no more on zephyrs' wings; Thy trembling chords no more shall sigh, No fairy minstrel hover nigh.

Farewell, sweet harp; for damp decay

Upon thy mouldering chords shall dwell, And thou shalt breathe no future lay,

And thou shalt raise no future swell; The breeze flits by, the music's o'er, The fairy sounds can charm no more.

THE IDIOT.

ANON.

Ir is a fearful thing to see The vacant smile of idiocy;

MADNESS.

That staring eye of soulless ray,
Which wanders wildly every way;
Those lips which mutter ghastly mirth:
Oh! 'tis the saddest sight on earth.
I'd sooner see within that eye
The wild-fire of insanity;

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