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Uvnumber'd maladies his joints invade,
Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade;
But unextinguish'd Avarice still remains,
And dreaded losses aggravate his pains ;
He turns, with anxious heart and crippled lands,
His boods of debt, and mortgages of lands;
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes,
Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies.
Where then shall hope and fear their objects find ?
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ?
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries attempt the mercies of the skies?
Inquirer, cease! petitions yet remain
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.
Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious pray’r,
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,
Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best.
Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resigned ;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat :
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain,
These gooils he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain ;
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude, where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach ;
I must finish my journey alone; Never hear the sweet music of speech
I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man, O had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth; Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
Religion ! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heardNever sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smil'd when a sabbath appear’d.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How feet is a glance of the mind !
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas ! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest;
The beast is laid down in his lair ;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place ;
And mercy, encouraging thought !
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
ON THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O’er the grave where our hero we buried !
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound hiin, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory, We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory. Wolfe.
DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset was seen ;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd on the face of the foe as he pass’d;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride,
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow at the glance of the Lord.
BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land !
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand ?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ;
For hiin no minstrel raptures swell!
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim :
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair rei!own,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.