HANNAH. Ar fond sixteen my roving heart Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I stole her hand,-it shrunk,-but no; With all the fervency of youth, 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, though whirlwinds shook my brain, I shunn'd 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, 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 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? THE OCEAN. 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; 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, Beneath his broad footstep the Ganges is dry, Its boughs o'er the wilderness spreads, The birds on the wing, and the flowers in their beds, 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, 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, To ravage the uttermost earth, And violate nations and realms that should be There are, gloomy ocean, a brotherless clan, -But the cries, of the fatherless mix with her praise, And the tears of the widow are shed on her bays. O Britain! dear Britain! the land of my birth: Thou pearl of the ocean! thou gem of the earth! From the homes of their kindred, their forefathers' O let not thy birthright be sold graves, Love, friendship, and conjugal bliss, They are dragg'd on the hoary abyss ; The shark hears their shrieks, and ascending to-day, Then joy to the tempest that whelms them beneath, Where the vultures and vampires of Mammon resort; Where Europe exultingly drains The life-blood from Africa's veins ; Where man rules o'er man with a merciless rod, The hour is approaching-a terrible hour! In a moment entomb'd in the horrible void, Shall this be the fate of the cane-planted isles, For reprobate glory and gold: Thy distant dominions like wild graftings shoot, They weigh down thy trunk,-they will tear up thy root: The root of thine OAK, O my country! that stands Rock-planted and flourishing free; Its branches are stretch'd o'er the uttermost lands, The blood of our ancestors nourish'd the tree; Though poor were your fathers,-gigantic and bold, But firm as our rocks, and as free as our waves, In the shipwreck of nations we stood up alone,The world was great Cæsar's-but Britain our own. "For ages and ages, with barbarous foes, The Saxon, Norwegian, and Gaul, We wrestled, were foil'd, were cast down, but we rose 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 Sinks softly and sweetly to rest? -No-Father of mercy! befriend the opprest; May the sorrows of Africa cease; To walk in thy freedom, and dwell in thy light!* As homeward my weary-wing'd fancy extends, Ah, me! what new prospects, new horrors arise? All foaming, and panting with blood; For Britannia is wielding the trident to-day And hurling her thunder with absolute sway ALL. -The cruel, and cannibal mind, We soften'd, subdued, and refined; Bears, wolves, and sea-monsters, they rush'd from their den; We taught them, we tamed them, we turn'd them to men. "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. "Ark, altar, and temple, we left with our breath! 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, To spread her invincible name; -The universe rings with her fame; So the shades of your fathers shall rest, And your spirits with ours be in Paradise blest: -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 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 flowers that hear the voice of spring, Of home, contentment, health, repose, In some calm sunset hour of peace; Of bliss that reigns above, 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 THE HARP OF SORROW. 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, Of long, long years of future care, Beyond the judgment-day of death: POPE'S WILLOW. 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, |