Then wept the warrior-chief, and bade to shred his locks away, XXIX. THE SLAVE'S PETITION. -Mrs. Norton. Ir was an aged man, who stood beside the blue Atlantic sea; They cast his fetters by the flood, and hailed the time-worn captive free; From his indignant eye there flashed a gleam his better nature gave, And while his tyrants shrank abashed, thus spoke the spirit-stricken Slave: "Bring back the chain, whose weight so long these tortured limbs have vainly borne; The word of freedom from your tongue, my weary ear rejects with scorn! 'Tis true, there was there was a time, I sighed, I panted to be free, And, pining for my sunny clime, bowed down my stubborn knee. "Then I have stretched my yearning arms, and shook in wrath my galling chain; Then, when the magic words had charms, I groaned for Liberty, in vain! That freedom ye at length bestow, and bid me bless my envied fate: "The boundless hope-the spring of joy, felt when the spirit's strength young; Which slavery only can alloy,—the mockeries to which I clung; The eyes, whose fond and sunny ray made life's dull lamp less dimly burn, The tones I pined for day by day,—can ye bid them return?. "Bring back the chain!-its clanking sound hath now a power beyond your own; It brings young visions smiling round, too fondly loved-too early flown! It brings me days when these dim eyes gazed o'er the wild and swelling sea, Counting how many suns must rise ere one might hail me free! "Bring back the chain! that I may think 'tis that which weighs my spirit so; And, gazing on each galling link, dream-as I dreamt-of bitter woe! My days are gone;-of hope, of youth, these traces now alone remain (Hoarded with sorrow's sacred truth)-tears, and my iron chain! "Freedom!-Though doomed in pain to live, the freedom of the soul is mine; But all of slavery you could give, around my steps must ever twine. Raise up the head which age hath bent, renew the hopes that childhood gave, Bid all return kind Heaven once lent;-till then-I am a slave!" XXX.-THE FELON.-M. G. Lewis. OH! mark his wan and hollow cheeks, and mark his eye-balls' glare, How fly from scorn, or how contrive to earn an honest bread? 66 My heart has greatly erred-but now would fain return to good! My hand has deeply sinned-but yet has ne'er been stained with blood! For alms, or work, in vain I sue-the scorners both deny; I starve! I starve !-Then what remains? this choice-to sin or die! "Here, Virtue spurns me with disdain,-there, Pleasure spreads her snare; Strong habit drives me back to vice; and, urged by fierce despair, XXXI.-THE SAILOR.-Rogers. THE sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, Ah! now, each dear domestic scene he knew, Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,— Charms with the magic of a moonlight view; Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by Time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart, Through all the horrors of the stormy main; This, the last wish that would with life departTo see the smile of her he loves again! When morn first faintly draws her silver line, Or eve's gray cloud descends to drink the wave When sea and sky in midnight darkness join, Still, still he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, In many a plantain-forest waving wide: Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. But lo! at last he comes with crowded sail! Lo! o'er the cliff, what eager figures bend! And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale In each, he hears the welcome of a friend! "Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land And clasps the maid he singles from the world! XXXII. -THE ORPHAN BOY.-Mrs. Opie. Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy; And see the lighted windows flame! 66 "Why are you crying thus," said I, When, suddenly, she gasped for breath; THE spearman heard the bugle sound, and cheerly smiled the morn 'Twas only at Llewellyn's board the faithful Gelert fed; But when he gained the castle door, aghast the chieftain stood; Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, unused such looks to meet; His favourite checked his joyful guise, and crouched and licked his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn passed-and on went Gelert too! And still, where'er his eyes were cast, fresh blood-gouts shocked his view! O'erturned his infant's bed he found! the blood-stained covert rent; And all around the walls and ground with recent blood besprent! He called his child-no voice replied! he searched with terror wild, Blood blood! he found on every side but nowhere found the child! "Hell-hound! by thee my child's devoured!" the frantic father cried, Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, some slumberer wakened nigh; Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread-but the same couch beneath, Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain! for now the truth was clear; XXXIV.—A SHIP SINKING.-Wilson. O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, Mid the deep darkness white as snow! But gently now the small waves glide, So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse for ever and aye. Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast! -Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last. Are hurried o'er the deck; And fast the miserable ship Becomes a lifeless wreck! Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock Her planks are torn asunder, And down come her masts with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash, like thunder! Her sails are draggled in the brine, That gladdened late the skies; And her pendant, that kissed the fair moonshine, Down many a fathom lies. Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues Gleamed softly from below, And flung a warm and sunny flush O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, To sleep amid colours as bright as their own. |