Poems original and translated :: :: University of Virginia Library

When at the holy altar's foot is given
Some blushing maiden to the enamour'd youth,
Whose long tried honour, constancy, and truth,
Yield the fair promise of an earthly heaven,
Though to far distant friends and country led,
Fond parents triumph mid the tears they shed.

Shall we then grieve that a celestial spouse
Hath borne this virgin treasure from our sight,
To share the glories of the eternal light,
The end of all our prayers and all our vows?
We should rejoice—but cannot as we ought.
Great God! forgive the involuntary fault.

274

ANOTHER EPITAPH.

Thou'rt gone, my Jane—for ever gone—
And in thy silent urn
Can holy rapture breathe no more,
Nor fond affection burn.

Mute are the strains—for ever mute—
On which we lingering hung,
While adoration swell'd each heart,
And fetter'd every tongue.

Yet still on one—one sister breast
Does the remembrance lie,
Vivid—as in the deepest lake
We view the brightest sky;

Thence ne'er to be effaced, till day
And all its tints expire;
And then—O God! with her to join
In Thine immortal choir?

TO A SON ENTERING COLLEGE.

“Go forth, my boy! and on the swelling tide
Of honourable fame securely ride!
Go forth! and may a father's blessing fill
Thy prosperous sail, and aid the steersman's skill,

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With power to shield from passion's tempest sway,
From pleasure's hidden shoals avert thy way,
Break pride's dull waveless calm, and bid retreat
Each eddying gust of folly and conceit;
So on thy brow exulting we may see
The glorious prize—the wreath of victory!”

Presumptuous wish—in doting fondness bred!
Unthinking prayer, recall'd as soon as sped!
Condemn'd by reason's voice, religion's power,
And proved delusive every passing hour.

In different strains experience bids arise,
Affection's offer'd incense to the skies.

“O God! receive, protect, and bless my son!
And, whatsoe'er Thy will, that will be done.
I ask but that Thou teachest all to pray—
The rest be Thine to give or take away.
Vouchsafe him health, if such Thy pleasure be;
And grant that he may use in honouring Thee!
If not, in sickness may he still be Thine,
And through the body's pains the soul refine.

“If happiness consist with length of days,
Long life be his, devoted to Thy praise!
But, whatsoe'er—or long, or short, his doom—
Should parents' tears bedew his early tomb,
Or children's children follow to the grave,
Be present Thou, Omnipotent to save!

276

“If thou hast form'd him in thy purpose high,
A mark conspicuous for the world's broad eye,
O let him honour'd live, lamented die!
But, if Thou willest that his heart be tried
By disappointed hope and wounded pride,
By cold neglect, or scorn more hard than hate,
Attendants of a low or fallen estate,
O make his spirit be resigned, and free
To hug retreat, and welcome privacy:
Oblivion's hermit portion bid him share;
But plant content and resignation there!

“Thy grace to aid each generous thought impart,
Invigorate the mind, keep pure the heart;
On Honour's sun-like form to fix his sight,
Firm as yon eagle's in his mountain flight;
Yet rather brave the world's contempt, than be
By conscience stricken, or disown'd by Thee!

“Let the bright star of reason's cloudless day
Beam on his soul with unobstructed ray,
Expand its powers, exalt its high desires,
And purge its weakness with etherial fires:
Full in his sight set virtue's sacred shrine,
And make him worthier heaven, as wholly Thine!”

277

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

ENTITLED “RETROSPECTION.”

To-day I enter on my fiftieth year.
My spring of Life is past—in swift career
Summer rolls down apace; and winter's blast
Will soon shake off the few green leaves that last.
The rapid foot of Time I may not chide;
Rather myself, who have so vainly tried
To strip some plumage from his wing, and raise
A trophied monument of deathless praise.
Yet this were pride—pride only—in the dress
That Lucifer best loves, of lowliness.
Ah no! far wiser were it to survey
In sober retrospect my travell'd way—
To note each blessing of my favour'd lot,
—Too thankless oft received, or heeded not—
But, chief, that thou, &c. [OMITTED]
“Praise doth not always to desert belong—
The race to speed—the battle to the strong.”
Thus, haply, love too partial might persuade:
But truth severe, in memory's garb array'd,
The fond deceit indignantly repels,
While of false hope and wasted strength she tells,
Of mis-directed aims, and toil mis-spent,
Talents for interest given, but kept as lent;

278

Means unembraced, occasions unemploy'd,
Pleasures unwisely used, and half enjoy'd:
And when—as faint I climb the rugged road,
“So distant wherefore still from Fame's abode?”
Stern conscience asks, “and why so poorly sped?”—
I've nought to answer, but must hang my head.
Yet do the years seem hours, or scarce so long,
Since on this chequer'd scene of right and wrong,
Of stern debate, and animated strife,
Where passions, good and evil, all are rife,
I enter'd first amid the bustling throng;
Nor heeded then my own prophetic song
That pointed to some lone sequester'd bower,
Where I might linger out life's evening hour. [OMITTED]
Ambition! honour! are ye empty breath?
Is there no refuge from life's ills but death?
Not so I thought while following year by year,
The airy phantoms your enchantments rear:
These busy peopling the unreal void
With hopes illusive, ne'er to be enjoy'd;
Those shedding noxious dews o'er every sense,
And steeping thought in mental indolence.
And yet, e'en then, in youth's ecstatic hour,
While Fancy held with undiminish'd power
Her empire o'er my breast, full well she knew
To shade the brightest forms her pencil drew
With sombre tinctures of funereal hue.
But, haply, still amid that waste of thought,
Some wiser lessons, by reflection taught,

279

Sprang timely forth—I learn'd that man is born
For nobler ends than but to joy or mourn;
That life is given, not just to feel and taste,
Then lose in slumber, or in idlesse waste;
A little folding of the arms to sleep—
A little space o'er imaged woes to weep. [OMITTED]
Words are the wheels of thought, by Heaven impell'd;
Such as of old the sacred bard beheld,
What time he sat by Chebar's silent strand,
Amongst the captives in Chaldæan land;
Whither the Spirit directs still made to go,
With Him to soar above, or sink below.
Yet better far to want the gift of speech—
All godlike though it be when used to preach
The words of wisdom, virtue, knowledge, sense,
To move by pathos, fire by eloquence,
By sweet persuasion to constrain, or roll
The tide of just invective o'er the soul,
Command the right, or reprobate the wrong,
Give courage to the weak, and judgment to the strong—
Aye—better far to want it, than employ
In falsehood's cause—to flatter and destroy,
Pervert the law, confound the fact, or raise
Dishonouring trophies or ill-measured praise—
Nay, better than to spend in idle flow
Of fond unmeaning phrases, or bestow
In waste of words, while pining suitors shame
The court's delay, and justice bears the blame;

280

To whine in maudlin cant, or loosely prate
Of all things save the subject of debate;
Regardless of each sign of just rebuke—
The hapless adversary's hopeless look;
The yawn that justice vainly strives to hide;
The long long list of causes still untried;
Rapt in one sole perfection—deaf and blind
To all without, around, before, behind.

Nor this alone, of all the gifts that start
For wealth and power, did nature fail to impart:
When in half angry, half indulgent mood,
The cup of Fancy's mingled ill and good
She bad me freely drink, the sorceress knew
That draught of bliss was dash'd with poison too;
That, never wholly blest, whose favour'd lips
The nectar touch, the wormwood also sips.
Imagination's willing slave, he flies
Too oft from stagnant life's realities,
To the bright regions of the upper air,
Content to starve, so he inhabit there.
But e'en this glorious error was not mine— [OMITTED]
O think not heaven e'er meant the immortal mind
A mere machine, in ceaseless round to grind
Food for the loud-tongued wranglers of the bar,
Or forge the weapons of forensic war.
Dare rather trust that man was made to use
The talents it hath lent for nobler views
Than such as these—commission'd high to soar
Beyond the fane where Mammon's sons adore—

281

Superior to the grovelling herd obscene,
Born but to serve where Avarice sits as queen,
And, glorying in their crime, who loud declare
Their base indifference whose the badge they wear—
Alike to them, whom Slavery stamps her own,
Whether they bow at Truth's or Falsehood's throne;
Just or unjust—who serve with equal zest
(If equal pay) the oppressor, and the opprest. [OMITTED]
Patriots there are—e'en now—but few or none
Who take their stand at duty's post alone;
Who dare appeal to men as men—the good
And true—for all existing—understood
By all. Their foes are better taught than they—
E'en Satan's self has learn'd that wiser way,
By system'd force the human will to bend.
Virtue and truth, firm fix'd, will, in the end
(Doubtless,) prevail; but wavering good is still
No match for resolute, consistent ill.
O for some wise, some potent voice, to make
The startled soul at duty's call awake!

There are, who, hearing what these notes proclaim,
May brand the preacher with the zealot's name;
May term him Superstition's slave and tool,
Or, bred themselves in rancour's narrow school,
Write him down hypocrite. Rash men, forbear—
Remembering what he is, and what ye are—
God's children all—the secret mind unknown
To all, but him who form'd it—God alone.

282

The mind!—mysterious essence—subtlest spark—
Of power to pierce the chambers, vast and dark,
Of death's profoundest cave—yet oftener doom'd
Amongst the living to remain entomb'd,
As in a sepulchre of breathing clay;
Instinct the body's mandates to obey,
But aimless as the dead, and uninform'd as they.
Wo to the man in whose distrustful mind
Power, virtue, freedom, no admittance find,
Because unmix'd they never yet were view'd
With sin, with weakness, and with servitude!
In the wide fields of science soon we learn
The things by nature separate to discern:
So, by like reason, in the moral state,
We must discern, that we may separate;
And in the right discerning good from ill
Begins the task of separation still. [OMITTED]
What in all ages, everywhere, hath been
By all believed, although unfelt, unseen
By outward sense, accept; nor ask for more
Than patriarch, saint, or prophet held of yore.
Not on cold logic rests the christian plan—
It is engrafted in the heart of man;
Fix'd in his memory; and rooted there
With the dear image of his mother's chair,
Her first remember'd accents—'tis self-proved—
Witness the power by which ourselves are moved;
Or as the sun by his own light is seen.
Thus sense suggests; and reason steps between

283

To separate what we feel from what we know.
That says it is—but this, it must be so.
The reasoning faculty, and that we name
The understanding, are no more the same,
Than are a maxim and a principle—
A truth eternal, indestructible,
And a bare inference from facts, how great
Soe'er their number, magnitude, and weight.
—At best, how fallible!—who sees a rose,
Sees that 'tis red; and what he sees he knows.
Day after day, at each successive hour,
Where'er he treads, the same love-vermeil'd flower
Blooms in his path. What wonder if he draw,
From facts so proved, a universal law,
And deem all roses of the self-same hue?
And this is knowledge; yet 'tis only true
Until a white rose gleams upon his view.
Where is his reason then?—his science, bought
With long experience? All must come to nought.

So, when creation's earliest day had run,
And Adam first beheld the new-born sun
Sink in the shrouded west, the deepening gloom
He watch'd, all hopeless of a morn to come.
Another evening's shades advancing near
He mark'd with livelier hopes, yet dash'd by fear.
Another—and another—hopes prevail;
Thousands of years repeat the wondrous tale:
Yet where is man's assurance, that the light
Of day will break upon the coming night? [OMITTED]

284

Without all sense of God, eternity,
Absolute truth, volition, liberty,
Good, fair, just, infinite—think, if you can,
Of such a being in the form of man;
What but the animal remains?—endow'd
(May be) with memory's instinctive crowd
Of images—but man is wanting there,
His very essence, unimpressive air;
And, in his stead, a creature subtler far
Than all the beasts that in the forest are,
Or the green field, but also cursed above
Them all—condemn'd that bitterest curse to prove—
“Upon thy belly creep, and, for thy fee,
Eat dust, so long as thou hast leave to be.”

There needs no hell of flames—for, if the will,
(Law of our nature,) be not with us still—
If from our reason that dissever'd be,
From fancy, understanding, memory—
No hell conceived by ignorance or zeal
Can equal that unbodied spirits must feel
From mental anarchy—from senses wrought
To conscious madness. Who can bear the thought?
And yet, how doubt it, grant there be a state—
Nor life, nor death, but intermediate—
Where souls, discharged their prison-house of clay,
And clothed in robes impervious to decay,
Await their final doom?—If this be plain
From holy writ, to seek elsewhere were vain.
If human virtue—(how imperfect found
E'en in the best who walk this earthly round!)

285

Shall in those unknown realms be further tried,
Enlarged, refined, exalted, purified;
If human wisdom—(e'en in man most wise,
How ill prepared for commune with the skies!)
Shall there be given with stronger wing to steer
Its venturous flight to an immortal sphere;
Or if, our earthly pilgrimage complete,
And place appointed nigh the mercy seat
By purchase made secure, we there shall rest,
Of future joy by present faith possest,
Not blest, but only waiting to be blest—
(Passive fruition!) none can ever know
Whose feet yet lingering press this sod below;
Unless—(as hath been told, and as I fain
Would think) in blissful intervals from pain,
Are sometimes sent, to spirits half set free,
Bright, transient glimpses of eternity,
Withheld from all beside, of power to shed
Serenest raptures o'er the dying head.

[OMITTED]

What most affects us—what we most desire,
Yet dread, to learn, and tremblingly inquire,
Of this uncertain state, this dreamy sea,
Is, if the soul, from mortal bonds set free,
Still lingers round the spot it once held dear,
Partakes the joy, arrests the falling tear,
Exalts the rapture, mitigates the pain,
Of those it loved, and hopes to meet again.
—Deep mysteries all, and far beyond the sense
Of man, or grasp of human evidence.

286

Yet these are reason—throned, in nature's spite,
By truth, self-poised, on revelation's height.

To such, in solemn reverence, I submit,
Unmoved by ridicule, my humble wit;
Nor count the seed ill sown; tho' doom'd to see
From the bare soil spring forth no goodly tree—
Sure that at heaven's appointed day 'twill rise
In full-grown strength, and spread into the skies. [OMITTED]
All lesser natures find their chiefest good
In straining after better, worthier food:
All strive to ascend, and all ascend in striving—
Each, each subduing, and itself surviving.
And shall man's strivings only—the reflection
Of his most inward self—his soul's election,
Be like an image in the glassy tide
Of some fair tree, that, bending o'er the side,
Deep and more deep, still downward seems to grow,
And in the unstable element below
Finds a mock heaven amid dull weeds, that spread
Their living wreaths around its pictured head—
Substance and shade—the real and the dream:
Yet better these that are than those that seem. [OMITTED]
Is it a crime in days like these to plead
The mind's exemption from all party creed?
Or is it timid, wavering, insincere,
By reason's glimmering lamp our course to steer—
Tho' clouds of doubt by fits our path may hide,
And intercept the soul's unerring guide—

287

Strait for the haven of eternal truth;
E'en though some loved companion of our youth
Fall from our side, as earth-born vapours chill,
And faction's withering genius warps the will?
Is this a spirit of change?—or, if it be,
Say, has the changeful mood pass'd over me
Alone?—is it not common as the sea,
And boundless?—Nay, breathes there one constant friend
To freedom's cause, from Europe's furthest end,
Across the wild Atlantic to the shore
Where erst her brightest smiles the goddess wore,
Whose ardour has no faint misgivings proved,
Whose faith in man's high destinies has moved
Alike progressive, since the hour when fell
Gaul's proud bastille, and wild destruction's yell
Was scarcely heard amid the general cry
Of honest joy for rescued liberty?
Or since that dawning of a brighter day,
While wrapt in shade the giant future lay,
That fairest hour that e'er had beam'd on earth,
Resplendent light! creation's second birth!
Yet then—ay, then—when France assembled sate,
Prince, nobles, people, in that hall of state,
When all she held, of brave, and fair, and free,
Expectant hail'd the world's great jubilee,—
There wanted not the seer's prophetic glance,
Nor sad Cassandra's doom-denouncing trance,
To dash the rapturous joy that proudly smiled
Through the bright eyes of Neckar's gifted child:

288

The wife, the matron, claim that boding tear,
That stifled groan, which none beside might hear.
Ill-fated Montmorin!—the tear, the groan,
That mark thy country's doom, forecast thine own:
Nor sex, nor age, the thirsty scaffold spares,
Nor infant innocence, nor reverend hairs.
Breathes there one constant friend—I ask again,
Nor care who scoffs the thrice repeated strain,—
One constant friend, to freedom's holy cause,
To equal rights, and all-protecting laws,
Who dared all conscious doubt and fear disown,
When terror's form usurp'd the Bourbon throne,
When nations heard the solemn dirge—“Arise,
Son of Saint Louis, to thy native skies?”
Or now, when Britain's alter'd land repeats
Each rank delusion of Parisian cheats,
In wisdom's vain pretence, religion spurns,
And mocks the altar and the throne by turns? [OMITTED]
Say, is it then this Faith in things unseen,
In better still to come than what has been,
This loathing for the sordid and the base,
For petty lucre's mean and stealthy pace,
For fulsome pedantry, contention vain,
And low ambition's mercenary train—
Is this the cause that I so long have stood,
Scorn'd and rejected, baffled, press'd, subdued?
Ah no! a different page I've learn'd to read,
And reason bids me own an humbler creed;
Only, which way heaven points, resolved I'd go,

289

Brave every chance, encounter every foe,
Still toward perfection strain, however blind
And frail mortality may lag behind;
No more, in wavering balance held, from fear
Of caution's censure, or derision's sneer,
Stand shivering on the margin of the flood,
Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would;”
But boldly plunge, and though the tempests roar,
Bear on undoubting to the further shore.

ODE ON THE DELIVERANCE OF EUROPE. 1814.

The hour of blood is past;
Blown the last trumpet's blast;
Peal'd the last thunders of the embattled line:
From hostile shore to shore
The bale-fires blaze no more;
But friendly beacons o'er the billows shine,
To light, as to their common home,
The barks of every port that cut the salt sea foam.

“Peace to the nations!”—Peace!
O sound of glad release
To millions in forgotten bondage lying;
In joyless exile thrown
On shores remote, unknown,
Where hope herself, if just sustain'd from dying,
Yet sheds so dim and pale a light,
As makes creation pall upon the sickening sight.

290

“Peace! Peace the world around!”
O strange, yet welcome sound
To myriads more that ne'er beheld her face;
And, if a doubtful fame
Yet handed down her name
In faded memory of an elder race,
It seem'd some visionary form,
Some Ariel, fancy-bred, to soothe the mimic storm.

Now the time-honour'd few,
Her earlier reign that knew,
May turn their eyes back o'er that dreamy flood,
And think again they stand
On the remember'd land,
Ere yet the sun had risen in clouds of blood,
Ere launch'd the chance-directed bark
On that vast world of ocean, measureless and dark.

And is it all a dream?
And did these things but seem—
The vain delusions of a troubled sight?
Or, if indeed they were,
For what did nature bear
The long dark horrors of that fearful night?
Only to breathe and be once more
Even as she was and breathed upon that former shore?

O'er this wild waste of time,
This sea of blood and crime,
Doth godlike virtue rear her awful form,

291

Only to cheat the sight
With wandering barren light—
The meteor, not the watch-fire, of the storm?
The warrior's deed, the poet's strain,
The statesman's anxious toil, the patriot's sufferings, vain?

For this did Louis lay,
In Gallia's sinful day,
On the red altar his anointed head?
For this did Nelson pour,
In Britain's glorious hour,
More precious blood than Britain e'er had shed?
And did their wingéd thoughts aspire,
Even in the parting soul's prophetic trance, no higher?

Ye tenants of the grave,
Whom unseen wisdom gave
To watch the shapeless mist o'er earth extending,
Yet will'd to snatch away
Before the appointed day
Of light renew'd, and clouds and darkness ending,
Oh might ye now permitted rise,
Cast o'er this wondrous scene your unobstructed eyes;

And say, O thou, whose might,
Bulwark of England's right,
Stood forth, the might of Chatham's lordly son;
Thou “on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung,”

292

When freedom's ebbing sand almost had run;
To the deliver'd world declare,
That each hath seen fulfill'd his latest, earliest prayer.

Rejoice, kings of the earth!
But with a temperate mirth;
The trophies ye have won, the wreaths ye wear—
Power with his red right hand,
And empire's despot brand,
Had ne'er achieved these proud rewards ye bear;
But, in one general cause combined,
The people's vigorous arm, the monarch's constant mind.

Yet that untired by toil,
Unsway'd by lust of spoil,
Unmoved by fear, or soft desire of rest,
Ye kept your onward course
With unremitted force,
And to the distant goal united press'd;
The soldier's bed, the soldier's fare,
His dangers, wants, and toils, alike resolved to share.

And more—that when, at length,
Exulting in your strength,
In tyranny o'erthrown, and victory won,
Before you lowly laid,
Your dancing eyes survey'd
The prostrate form of humbled Babylon,
Ye cried, “Enough!”—and at the word
Vengeance put out her torch, and slaughter sheathed his sword—

293

Princes, be this your praise!
And ne'er in after days
Let faction rude that spotless praise profane,
Or dare with license bold
The impious falsehood hold,
That Europe's genuine kings have ceased to reign,
And that a weak adulterate race,
Degenerate from their sires, pollutes high honour's place.

Breathe, breathe again, ye free,
The air of liberty,
The native air of wisdom, virtue, joy!
And, might ye know to keep
The golden wealth ye reap,
Not thrice ten years of terror and annoy,
Of mad destructive anarchy,
And pitiless oppression, were a price too high.

Vaulting ambition! mourn
Thy bloody laurels torn,
And ravish'd from thy grasp the sin-bought prize;
Or, if thy meteor fame
Still win the world's acclaim,
Let it behold thee now with alter'd eyes,
And pass, but with a pitying smile,
The hope-abandon'd chief of Elba's lonely isle.

294

FOR THE GENERAL FAST. 1832.

The wrath of God—the wrath of God—
Is pour'd upon a guilty land:
Who can resist His awful rod?
His gather'd vengeance who withstand?

What may this vast corruption be,
That makes our God His face to hide—
That flows as hugely as the sea,
And swallows all it reaches?—Pride.

The pride of reason and of power,
The pride of knowledge and of skill,
The pride of fashion's painted flower,
And of ungovernable will.

Pride—that deforms our beauteous vales
With riot fierce and gloomy rage—
That makes o'erflow our groaning gaols
With desperate youth and harden'd age.

Pride—that the towering statesman steels
To point the unhesitating wound,
And reckless what his victim feels,
To dart sarcastic lightnings round.

Pride—that perverts the sacred theme
By glosses drawn from man's decrees—
That makes an atom judge supreme
Of heaven's unfathom'd mysteries;

295

That bids the pamper'd heir of wealth
From misery's plaint regardless turn;
The confident in youth and health
Grey hairs and pale diseases spurn;

Self-honour'd virtue shut the door
On penitence for errors past;
Self-worshipp'd wit disdain the lore
That sage antiquity held fast;

Half-letter'd pedantry assume
The lofty magisterial speech;
And to its own base level doom
The heights it ne'er was given to reach;

All sects, all classes, all degrees
Of men that move beneath the sun,
One universal madness seize
Of struggling not to be out-done.

Hence mutual jealousies and fears;
Deadly revenges; devilish hates;
And hours perform the work of years
In urging on the fall of states.

—Haste, Britain, to the mercy-seat,
And gird thy robe of sackcloth on;
And thus in solemn strain repeat,
Devoutly prostrate at the throne—

“The wrath of God—the wrath of God—
Is pour'd upon a guilty land:
None can resist His awful rod;
His gather'd vengeance none withstand.

296

“Yet, Lord, our humble offering take,
And turn no more thy face aside,
Whilst at thy altar we forsake
Our rebel wit—our idol Pride.

“The festering plagues that round us wait
Are but the type of that within.
O God! of thy great power abate
The moral pestilence of sin!

“So may our land thy holy name
Again with hymns of triumph sing;
Again with ceaseless shout proclaim—
The Lord of Hosts is Britain's king!”

SONNETS. 1834–5.

SONNET I.

Yon party zealot, ignorant as warm,
Has taunted me with change—a charge untrue.
I ne'er was one with that deceitful crew,
Who mean Destruction when they roar “Reform;”
My purpose ever to prevent the storm
'Tis theirs to excite. The wholesome air I drew
With my first breath was Loyalty. I grew
In childhood reverence of her sacred form:
And, as she beam'd upon my youthful eye,
Link'd with her mountain sister Liberty,

297

In holiest union, all the more she won
My love and worship; and so made me shun
The fellowship of those who madly try
To rend asunder what heaven join'd in one.

SONNET II.

“The king's name is a tower of strength”—e'en so
May it be ever in this favour'd land—
Of strength alike for succour and command,
Shelter from storms, and safety from the foe;
For refuge to the needy and the low,
When leagued oppressors their just rights withstand;
The nation's sure defence, whene'er the hand
Of bigot faction seeks its overthrow.
Then honour'd be that name by all who share
The blessings it protects; nor honour'd less
The patriot chieftain's, who, when dangers press,
Alike regardless, or of ambush'd snare,
Or fierce assault, with soldier steadfastness
Is ever at his post—to do and dare.

SONNET III.

“Awake! arise! or be for ever fallen.” —MILTON.

------, awake!—or sleep thy long, last sleep—
------, arise!—or be for ever lost
Among the fallen—What? know'st thou not the cost
Of real glory?—canst thou look to reap

298

The great reward, by following those that creep
Along shore, when thy country's hopes are tost
On the wide main—by warring tempests crost,
And well nigh founder'd in the yawning deep?
------, awake! It is thy country's voice
That bids thee rouse—that calls thee to her side.
Thy name, so oft in glorious conflict tried,
When victory hath bid her sons rejoice,
We now invoke, to stem destruction's tide.
Awake! arise! the patriot hath no choice.

SONNET IV.

“Upon the king!” —SHAKSP. HENRY V.

------, awake!—The warning voice again—
Again, again it sounds—awake! arise!
Purge off the noxious film that clouds thine eyes,
Engender'd erst in faction's secret den.
There is no party now for honest men—
None but their country's. Here the good and wise
Have fix'd the sacred standard, that defies
Mere human force, and will be shaken then
Only, when God ordains. Upon a rock
It stands secure. An oak's wide branches fling
Their shadows round its base. About it flock
The nations, and there rest the wearied wing,
Unscathed by scorching hate, or envy's shock—
That rock our country, and that oak our king.