« EelmineJätka »
DEEP grav'd in ev'ry British heart,
O, never let those names depart!
Say to your sons, "Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave!
To him, as to the burning leven,
Short, bright, resistless course was giv'n.
Where'er his country's foes were found,
Was heard the fated thunder's sound;
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Roll'd, blaz'd, destroy'd—and was no more!
Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar ; Who, born to guide such high emprize, For Britain's weal was early wise; Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, For Britain's sins, an early grave: His worth, who, in his mightiest hour, A bauble held the pride of pow'r, Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, And serv'd his Albion for herself; Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein, O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,— The pride he could not crush, restrain'd,
Shew'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.
O think, how to his latest day,
When death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,
With Palinure's unalter'd mood,
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repell'd,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till in his fall, with fateful sway,
The steerage of the realm gave way!
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains
One unpolluted Church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still, upon the hallow'd day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear,—
He who preserv'd them- Pitt, lies here!
NEAR Yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
And still where many a garden-flow'r grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose :
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
For other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train ;
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain.
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forget their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But, in his duty prompt at ev'ry call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all :
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd,
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
O SAY not, dream not, heav'nly notes
To childish ears are vain;
That the young mind at random floats,
And cannot reach the strain.
Dim or unheard the words may fall,
And yet the heav'n-taught mind
May learn the sacred air, and all
The harmony unwind.
Was not our Lord a little child,
Taught by degrees to pray;
By father dear, and mother mild,
Instructed day by day?
And lov'd he not of heav'n to talk,
With children in his sight;
To meet them in his daily walk,
And to his arms invite?
What though around his throne of fire
The everlasting chant
Be wafted from the seraph-choir
In glory jubilant!
Yet stoops he, ever pleas'd to mark
Our rude essays of love,
Faint as the pipe of wak'ning lark,
Heard by some twilight grove.
Yet is he near us, to survey
These bright and order'd files, Like spring-flow'rs in their best array, All silence and all smiles.