Could'st thou not guard the seed, thus sown, While the world's wealth around was strown, Or spurned it on the rolling wave. Yet, nursed by heav'n, it cannot die, Tho' on the waters borne ; It blooms beneath a northern sky, In fields of waving corn; And Albion's shore the birth-right finds, Thou wert a mart of nations then, When Rome the sceptre sway'd; And wealth of earth, and vows of men, Fill'd was thy horn with corn and wine- But since thou scorn'dst thy Lord to greet, But bear no snow-white sail; All things have pluck'd thy power-the sea 'Mid Jove's proud fane forlorn ; And on the ruins of thy pride, The cells of woe and want abide. God winks at ignorance, nor withholds But when he heav'nly gifts unfolds, Who spurn the boon,-the grace withstand, Sad lot! to lose all Man had given, While beams the Sun, to sleep in night, Yet thus it is-who spurn His sheep Who sow the wind must ever reap The whirlwind as their hire. Is this thy gain, Puteoli? So lost! Who would not weep for thee! THE TEMPLES OF PESTUM. SONNET. LONE wrecks of ages gone! whose very roar Clinging to earth, and wrestling with decay? Till man redress foul wrong, and plant Christ's cross on high. THE PONTINE MARSHES. CURSED IS THE GROUND FOR THY SAKE.-GEN. III. 17. Lo! signs of morn o'er heaven's face! Come, strain like stag-hound in the chase, For with disease we run the race These shoals among― As, speeding near the mountain's base, What means the earth-so slow to wake, Her covering from her shoulders shake, While sun-beams on her slumbers break? Will she not own Him, who from nought her being spake, As King alone? |