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-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?

At fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by love's delightful dart:
Keen transport throbb’d through every vein,
-I never felt so sweet a pain !


Where circling woods embower'd the glade,
I met the dear romantic maid:
I stole her hand,-it shrunk,-but no;
I would not let my captive go.
With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye,
'Twas kind, but beautifully shy.

Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamour'd, woos young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the sun her blushing face ;
But, swister than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon,
Should vanish in so dark a noon.

The angel of affliction rose, And in his grasp a thousand woes; He pour'd his vial on my head, And all the heaven of rapture fled. 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 shunnd my nymph ;-and knew not why I durst not meet her gentle eye ; I shunn'd her-for I could not bear To marry her to my despair. Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd, Oft the dear image of that maid Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind, And promised happiness behind. The storm blew o'er, and in my breast The halcyon peace rebuilt her nest : The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild 'The sea of youth and pleasure smiled. 'Twas on a merry morn of May, To Hannah's cot I took my way: My eager hopes were on the wing, Like swallows sporting in the spring, Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er, I lived my wooing days once more ; And fancy sketch'd my married lot, My wife, my children, and my cot. I saw the village steeple rise,My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes ; The rural bells rang sweet and clear,My fond heart listen'd in mine ear. I reach'd the hamlet :--all was gay; I love a rustic holiday. I met a wedding, stepp'd aside ; It pass'd-my Hannah was the bride.


1805. All hail to the ruins,* the rocks and the shores ! Thou wide-rolling ocean, all hail ! Now brilliant with sunbeams, and dimpled with oars, Now dark with the fresh blowing gale, While soft o'er thy bosom the cloud shadows sail, And the silver-wing'd sea-fowl on high, Like meteors bespangle the sky, Or dive in the gull, or triumphantly ride, Like foam on the surges, the swans of the tide. From the tumult and smoke of the city set free, With eager and awful delight; From the crest of the mountain I gaze upon thee; I gaze,-and am changed at the sight; For mine eye is illumined, my genius takes flight, My soul, like the sun, with a glance Embraces the boundless expanse, 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 Are sweet as the phenix's pyre: O regions of beauty, of love, and desire ! O gardens of Eden! in vain Placed far on the fathomless main, Where nature with innocence dwelt in her youth, When pure was her heart, and unbroken her truth. But now the fair rivers of Paradise wind Through countries and kingdoms o'erthrown; Where the giant of tyranny crushes mankind, Where be reigns,—and will soon reign alone; For wide and more wide, o'er the sunbeaming zone He stretches his hundred-fold arms, Despoiling, destroying its charms; 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, Its mildewing influence sheds : The birds on the wing, and the flowers in their beds, Are slain by its venomous breath, That darkens the noonday with death, And pale ghosts of travellers wander around, While their mouldering skeletons whiten the

ground. Ah! why hath JEHOVAH, in forming the world, With the waters divided the land, His ramparts of rocks round the continent hurld, And cradled the deep in his hand, If man may transgress his eternal command,

* Scarborough Castle.

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 bcars 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; And makes their destruction its sport;

Its branches are stretch'd o'er the uttermost lands, But wo to the winds that propitiously breathe,

And its shadow eclipses the sea :

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 conquerid 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 rolls the buge ocean, hell opens below:
The floods return headlong,-they sweep

In the shipwreck of nations we stood up alone,

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'dWE 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

to men. 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 flood

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 Aies 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- O 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 sjonaries among the Negroes in the West Indies.

From liberty, justice, religion, AT HOME.



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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 him afford no other trace

Of home, contentment, health, repose,

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

In some calm sunset hour of peace; 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.



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 despair,

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 tuneful breath,

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

Upon the drooping willow;

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