« EelmineJätka »
What made him,-rich in honours, still pursue,
And keep bright Glory ever in his view?
What cheer'd the dying Hero's latest breath?
But shouts of vict'ry in the hour of death!
But love of Fame!-that gen'rous, patriot fire,
That noble minds to noblest deeds inspire;
The ruling passions of the truly great,
Which makes amends for all the ills of fate!
And where's the false philosopher would try
To chase this splendid vision from the eye?
To sink in apathy the ardent mind,
And banish patriot feelings from mankind!
When love of Country ceases to inspire,
And unregarded burns the hallow'd fire;
That nation soon will hasten to decay,
The traitor's plunder, or th' invader's prey!
When selfish principles its place supply,
Nip'd in the bud the gen'rous virtues die;
No glory lures the hero to the wave,
No laurel blooms upon the soldier's grave!
And the firm champion of the public cause
Neglected lives, and dies without applause.
May Britons still that fatal error shun,
By which deluded nations were undone!
Let all who hold the pen, or wield the spear,
At England's call, in England's cause appear!
The sacred summons none will dare refuse,
And foremost should be found each British muse!
When, crush'd beneath the Tyrant's galling chain,
Afflicted millions dar'd not to complain,
■ And, while reduc'd to that degraded state,
Were forc'd to praise the object of their hate;
This Country, in his vain and prosperous hour,
Defied his malice, and curtail'd his power;
Taught Europe first to make the sword her shield,
And brave the hated upstart in the field.
Though kingdoms sunk beneath the despot's stroke,
His sword was shiver'd by the British Oak!
With undiminish'd strength, and matchless form,
Its head shall rise superior to the storm;
'Gainst which in vain the tyrant's rage is hurl'd-
The mighty bulwark of a suff'ring world!
Th' Imperial Alexander, great as wise!
From realms remote to Europe's succour flies;
Before his face, where sun-bright honour shines,
The pallid star of guilty France declines!
His gallant troops, by Russian Nelson led,
Pour dreadful vengeance on the Spoiler's head,
Who, lower'd in pride, and baffled by defeat,
From plunder'd Poland makes a base retreat!—
Then let the pen enforce this sacred truth,
And write it early on the heart of youth;
A theme all worldly lessons far above,
That their first duty is their Country's love!
Teach them that freeborn empires sink or rise,
As men this duty honour, or despise—
Teach them with loyal zeal to guard the Throne,
Convinc'd their Monarch's interests are their own.
Parties, by turns, may triumph, or may fall,
But England's welfare is above them all!
Whoever rules, no change the patriot knows-
He loves his Country, and detests her foes!
THE HOROLOGE OF THE FIELDS.
Addressed to a Young Lady, on seeing at the House of an Acquaintance a magnificent French Time-piece.
But conscious of the earliest beam,
She rises from her humid rest,
And sees reflected in the stream
The virgin whiteness of her breast.
Till the bright day-star to, the west
Declines in ocean's surge to lave,
Then folded in her modest vest,
She slumbers on the rocking wave.
See Hieracium's various tribe,
Of plumy seed and radiate flowers, The course of Time their blooms describe, And wake or sleep appointed hours.
Broad o'er its imbricated cup
The Goatsbeard spreads its golden rays, But shuts its cautious petals up, Retreating from the noon-tide blaze:
Pale as a pensive cloister'd nun
The Bethlem-star her face unveils, When o'er the mountain peers the sun, But shades it from the vesper gales.
Among the loose and arid sands
The humble Arenaria creeps; Slowly the purple star expands, But soon within its calyx sleeps.
And those small bells so lightly ray'd
With young Aurora's rosy hue;
Are to the noon-tide sun display'd,
But shut their plaits against the dew.
On upland slopes the shepherds mark
The hour, when, as the dial true,
Cichorium to the towering lark,
Lifts her soft eyes, serenely blue.
And thou, "Wee crimson tipped flower,"
Gatherest thy fringed mantle round
Thy bosom, at the closing hour,
When night-drops bathe the turfy ground.
Unlike Silene, who declines
The garish noontide's blazing light; But when the evening crescent shine's
Gives all her sweetness to the night.
Thus in each flower and simple bell,
That in our path untrodden lie,
Are sweet remembrancers who tell
How fast the winged moments fly.
Time will steal on with ceaseless pace,
Yet lose we not the fleeting hours,
Who still their fairy footsteps trace,
As light they dance among the flowers.
From the Rev. Henry Moore's Poems.
Y God, thy boundless love I praise,
How bright on high its glories blaze!
How sweetly bloom below!
It streams from thine eternal throne;
Thro' heaven its joys for ever run,
And o'er the earth they flow.
"Tis love that paints the purple morn,
And bids the clouds in air upborn,
Their genial drops distil;
In ev'ry vernal beam it glows,
And breathes in ev'ry gale that blows,
And glides in ev'ry rill.
It robes in cheerful green the ground,
And pours its flow'ry beauties round,
Whose sweets perfume the gale;
Its bounties richly spread the plain,
The blushing fruit, the golden grain,
And smile on ev'ry vale.
But in thy gospel see it shine,
With grace and glories more divine,
Proclaiming sins forgiven;
There Faith, bright cherub, points the way
To realms of everlasting day,
And opens all her heaven.
Then let the love that makes me blest,
With cheerful praise inspire my breast,
And ardent gratitude;
And all my thoughts and passions tend
To thee, my father and my friend,
My soul's eternal good.
Dart from thine own celestial flame
One vivid beam to warm my frame
With kindred energy;
Mark thine own image on my mind;
And teach me to be good and kind,
And love, and bless like thee.
LIFE'S ceaseless labours, and illusive joys,
Its storms and waves, what brazen breast could bear, Did not the cherub Faith's reviving voice
Sound its sweet music in affliction's ear?
See she waves high upon her heavenly shore
Her flaming brand, that guides me to be blest!
Ye foaming billows roll!-ye tempests roar!
Your rage but drives me sooner to my rest.
The seaman thus, long tost by stormy seas,
Worn out with toil, and sinking with disease,
With looks of rapture eyes the black'ning land,
Forgets the past, and smiles at present pain,
Feels a new vigour thrill through ev'ry vein,
And leaps exulting on the welcome strand,
DEATH, JUDGMENT, HEAVEN, AND HELL.
From Short Pieces in Verse, by Clericus.
HY terrors, Death! and wide-extended reign,
Thy gloomy mansions, and thy awful train,
The day of judgment, God's avenging might,
Heaven's wond'rous brightness dimming mortal sight,
And hell's dark dungeons, hid in ten-fold night.
My Muse in humble numbers fain would sing,
Guided by thy blest spirit, glorions King!