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Thy rights are empire: urge no meaner claim,- | Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,
Felt, not defined, and if debated, lost;

Like sacred mysteries, which withheld from fame,
Shunning discussion, are revered the most.

Try all that wit and art suggest to bend
Of thy imperial foe the stubborn knee;
Make treacherous man thy subject, not thy friend;
Thou mayst command, but never canst be free.

Awe the licentious, and restrain the rude;

Soften the sullen, clear the cloudy brow:
Be, more than princes' gifts, thy favours sued;
She hazards all, who will the least allow.

But hope not, courted idol of mankind,

On this proud eminence secure to stay; Subduing and subdued, thou soon shalt find Thy coldness soften, and thy pride give way. Then, then, abandon each ambitious thought, Conquest or rule thy heart shall feebly move, In Nature's school, by her soft maxims taught, That separate rights are lost in mutual love.


...And their voice,

Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in its sound.

THE muses are turn'd gossips; they have lost
The buskin'd step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come then, domestic muse,
In slipshod measure loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;
Come, muse, and sing the dreaded washing-day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bow'd soul, full well ye ken the day

Or usual 'tendance ;-ask not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious: shouldst thou try
The 'custom'd garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crush'd beneath the weight
Of coarse check'd apron,-with impatient hand
Twitch'd off when showers impend: or crossing

Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Wo to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites!
Looks blank at best, and stinted courtesy,
Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chickens, savoury pie,
Or tart or pudding:-pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try,
Mending what can't be help'd, to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Clear up propitious :-the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.

I well remember, when a child, the awe

This day struck into me; for then the maids,

I scarce knew why, look'd cross, and drove me
from them:

Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams,
Relic of costly suppers, and set by
For me their petted one; or butter'd toast,
When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost or witch, or murder-so I went
And shelter'd me beside the parlour fire:
There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,
Tended the little ones, and watch'd from harm,

Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles
With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins

Drawn from her ravell'd stockings, might have

One less indulgent.

Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on At intervals my mother's voice was heard,

Too soon ;-for to that day nor peace belongs
Nor comfort;-ere the first gray streak of dawn,
The red-arm'd washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
E'er visited that day: the very cat,

From the wet kitchen scared and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour,—an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast-meal is soon despatch'd;
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower.
From that last evil, O preserve us, heavens!
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet: then expect to hear
Of sad disasters,-dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapp'd short, and linen horse by dog thrown

And all the petty miseries of life.

Saints have been calm while stretch'd upon the

And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day.
-But grant the welkin fair, require not thou
Who call'st thyself perchance the master there,

Urging despatch: briskly the work went on,
All hands employ'd to wash, to rinse, to wring,
To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.
Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow

Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft
The floating bubbles; little dreaming then
To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball

Ride buoyant through the clouds—so near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them-this most of all.

MIDWAY the hill of science after steep
And rugged paths that tire the unpractised feet,
A grove extends in tangled mazes wrought,
And fill'd with strange enchantment :-dubious

Flit through dim glades, and lure the eager


Of youthful ardour to eternal chase.

Dreams hang on every leaf; unearthly forms
Glide through the gloom; and mystic visions swim
Before the cheated sense. Athwart the mists,
Far into vacant space, huge shadows stretch,
And seem realities; while things of life,
Obvious to sight and touch, all glowing round,
Fade to the hue of shadows.-Scruples here,
With filmy net, most like th' autumnal webs
Of floating gossamer, arrest the foot
Of generous enterprise; and palsy hope
And fair ambition with the chilling touch
Of sickly hesitation and blank fear.

Nor seldom Indolence these lawns among
Fixes her turf-built seat; and wears the garb
Of deep philosophy, and museful sits,

In dreamy twilight of the vacant mind,

Soothed by the whispering shade; for soothing soft
The shades; and vistas lengthening into air,
With moonbeam rainbows tinted.-Here each mind
Of finer mould acute and delicate,

In its high progress to eternal truth

Rests for a space, in fairy bowers entranced;
And loves the soften'd light and tender gloom;
And, pamper'd with most unsubstantial food,
Looks down indignant on the grosser world,
And matters cumbrous shaping. Youth beloved
Of Science of the Muse beloved,-not here,
Not in the maze of metaphysic lore,
Build thou thy place of resting! lightly tread
The dangerous ground, on noble aims intent;
And be this Circe of the studious cell

Enjoy'd but still subservient. Active scenes
Shall soon with healthful spirit brace thy mind;
And fair exertion for bright fame sustain'd,

For friends, for country chase each spleen-fed fog That blots the wide creation.

Now Heaven conduct thee with a parent's love!


To learned Athens, led by fame,
As once the man of Tarsus came,

With pity and surprise,

Midst idol altars as he stood,

O'er sculptured marble, brass, and wood, He roll'd his awful eyes.

But one, apart, his notice caught,

That seem'd with higher meaning fraught, Graved on the wounded stone;

Nor form nor name was there express'd; Deep reverence fill'd the musing breast, Perusing, "To the God unknown."

Age after age has roll'd away,
Altars and thrones have felt decay,
Sages and saints have risen;
And, like a giant roused from sleep,
Man has explored the pathless deep,
And lightnings snatch'd from heaven.

And many a shrine in dust is laid,
Where kneeling nations homage paid,
By rock, or fount, or grove;

Ephesian Dian sees no more
Her workmen fuse the silver ore,
Nor Capitolian Jove.

E'en Salem's hallow'd courts have ceased
With solemn pomps her tribes to feast,
No more the victim bleeds;
To censers fill'd with rare perfumes,
And vestments from Egyptian looms,
A purer rite succeeds.

Yet still, where'er presumptuous man
His Maker's essence strives to scan,
And lifts his feeble hands,
Though saint and sage their powers unite,
To fathom that abyss of light,
Ah! still that altar stands.


DREAD offspring of the holy light within,
Offspring of Conscience and of Sin,
Stern as thine awful sire, and fraught with wo,
From bitter springs thy mother taught to flow,-
Remorse! To man alone 'tis given

Of all on earth, or all in heaven,
To wretched man thy bitter cup to drain,
Feel thy awakening stings, and taste thy whole-
some pain.

Midst Eden's blissful bowers,

And amaranthine flowers,

Thy birth portentous dimm'd the orient day,
What time our hapless sire,
O'ercome by fond desire,

The high command presumed to disobey;
Then didst thou rear thy snaky crest,
And raise thy scorpion lash to tear the guilty

And never, since that fatal hour, May man, of woman born, expect t' escape thy


Thy goading stings the branded Cain
Cross th' untrodden desert drove,

Ere from his cradling home and native plain
Domestic man had learnt to rove.

By gloomy shade or lonely flood
Of vast primeval solitude,
Thy step his hurried steps pursued,
Thy voice awoke his conscious fears,
For ever sounding in his ears

A father's curse, a brother's blood;
Till life was misery too great to bear,
And torturing thought was lost in sullen, dumb

The king who sat on Judah's throne,

By guilty love to murder wrought, Was taught thy searching power to own, When, sent of Heaven, the seer his royal presence


As, wrapt in artful phrase, with sorrow feign'd,
He told of helpless, meek distress,
And wrongs that sought from power redress,
The pity-moving tale his ear obtain'd,

And bade his better feelings wake:

Then, sudden as the trodden snake On the scared traveller darts his fangs, The prophet's bold rebuke aroused thy keenest pangs.

Why does he lift the cruel scourge ? The restless pilgrimage why urge?

"Tis all to quell thy fiercer rage,

"Tis all to sooth thy deep despair, He courts the body's pangs, for thine he cannot


And O that look, that soft upbraiding look!
A thousand cutting, tender things it spoke,-
The sword so lately drawn was not so keen,—
Which, as the injured Master turn'd him round,
In the strange solemn scene,

And the shrill clarion gave th' appointed sound,
Pierced sudden through the reins,
Awakening all thy pains,

And drew a silent shower of bitter tears Down Peter's blushing cheek, late pale with coward fears.

Cruel Remorse! where Youth and Pleasure sport,

And thoughtless Folly keeps her court,Crouching midst rosy bowers thou lurk'st unseen; Slumbering the festal hours away, While Youth disports in that enchanting scene; Till on some fated day

Thou with a tiger-spring dost leap upon thy prey, And tear his helpless breast, o'erwhelm'd, with wild dismay.

Mark that poor wretch with clasped hands! Pale o'er his parent's grave he stands,The grave by his ingratitude prepared; Ah then, where'er he rests his head, On roses pillow'd or the softest down,

Though festal wreaths his temples crown, He well might envy Guatimozin's bed,

With burning coals and sulphur spread, And with less agony his torturing hour have shared.

For Thou art by to point the keen reproach; Thou draw'st the curtains of his nightly couch, Bring'st back the reverend face with tears bedew'd,

That o'er his follies yearn'd;
The warnings oft in vain renew'd,
The looks of anguish and of love,

His stubborn breast that failed to move, When in the scorner's chair he sat, and wholesome counsel spurn'd.

Lives there a man whose labouring breast
Is with some dark and guilty secret prest,
Who hides within its inmost fold
Strange crimes to mortal ear untold?
In vain to sad Chartreuse he flies,

Midst savage rocks and cloisters dim and drear,
And there to shun thee tries:

In vain untold his crime to mortal ear, Silence and whisper'd sounds but make thy voice more clear.

Lo. where the cowled monk with frantic rage Lifts high the sounding scourge, his bleeding shoulders smites!

Penance and fasts his anxious thoughts engage,
Weary his days and joyless are his nights,
His naked feet the flinty pavement tears,
His knee at every shrine the marble wears;—

See o'er the bleeding corse of her he loved,
The jealous murderer bends unmoved,
Trembling with rage, his livid lips express
His frantic passion's wild and rash excess.
O God, she's innocent!-transfixt he stands,
Pierced through with shafts from thine avenging

Down his pale cheek no tear will flow,
Nor can he shun, nor can he bear, his wo.

"Twas phantoms summon'd by thy power Round Richard's couch at midnight hour, That scared the tyrant from unblest repose; With frantic haste, "To horse! to horse!" he cries, While on his crowned brow cold sweat-drops rise, And fancied spears his spear oppose ; But not the swiftest steed can bear away From thy firm grasp thine agonizing prey,

Thou wast the fiend, and thou alone, That stood'st by Beaufort's mitred head, With upright hair and visage ghastly pale: Thy terrors shook his dying bed,

Past crimes and blood his sinking heart assail, His hands are clasp'd,-hark to that hollow groan! See how his glazed, dim eye-balls wildly roll, 'Tis not dissolving Nature's pains; that pang is of the soul.

Where guilty souls are doom'd to dwell,
'Tis thou that makest their fiercest hell,
The vulture thou that on their liver feeds,
As rise to view their past unhallow'd deeds;
With thee condemn'd to stay,
Till time has roll'd away

Long eras of uncounted years,


And every stain is wash'd in soft repentant tears.

Servant of God-but unbeloved-proceed,
For thou must live and ply thy scorpion scourge:
Thy sharp upbraidings urge

Against th' unrighteous deed,

And a new world spring forth from renovating fire Till thine accursed mother shall expire,

O! when the glare of day is fled,

And calm, beneath the evening star, Reflection leans her pensive head, And calls the passions to her solemn bar; Reviews the censure rash, the hasty word, The purposed act too long deferr'd, Of time the wasted treasures lent, And fair occasions lost, and golden hours mispent:

When anxious Memory numbers o'er Each offer'd prize we failed to seize; Or friends laid low, whom now no more Our fondest love can serve or please, And thou, dread power! bring'st back, in terrors drest,

Th' irrevocable past, to sting the careless breast;

O! in that hour be mine to know, While fast the silent sorrows flow,

And wisdom cherishes the wholesome pain, No heavier guilt, no deeper stain, Than tears of meek contrition may atone, Shed at the mercy-seat of Heaven's eternal throne.



YES, Britain mourns, as with electric touch,
For youth, for love, for happiness destroy'd,
Her universal population melts

In grief spontaneous, and hard hearts are moved,
And rough, unpolish'd natures learn to feel
For those they envied, levell'd in the dust
By Fate's impartial stroke; and pulpits sound
With vanity and wo to earthly goods,

And urge and dry the tear.-Yet one there is
Who midst this general burst of grief remains
In strange tranquillity; whom not the stir
And long-drawn murmurs of the gathering crowd,
That by his very windows trail the pomp
Of hearse, and blazon'd arms, and long array
Of sad funereal rites, nor the loud groans
And deep-felt anguish of a husband's heart,
Can move to mingle with this flood one tear:
In careless apathy, perhaps in mirth,

He wears the day. Yet is he near in blood,
The very stem on which this blossom grew,
And at his knees she fondled in the charm
And grace spontaneous which alone belongs
To untaught infancy:-Yet, O forbear!

Nor deem him hard of heart; for awful, struck
By Heaven's severest visitation, sad,
Like a scathed oak amidst the forest trees,
Lonely he stands ;-leaves bud, and shoot, and fall,
He holds no sympathy with living nature
Or time's incessant change. Then in this hour,
While pensive thought is busy with the woes
And restless change of poor humanity,
Think then, O think of him, and breathe one

From the full tide of sorrow spare one tear,
For him who does not weep!


ARRAY'D in robes of regal state,
But stiff and cold the monarch sate;
In gorgeous vests, his chair beside,
Stood prince and peer, the nation's pride;
And paladin and high-born dame
Their place amid the circle claim:
And wands of office lifted high,
And arms and blazon'd heraldry,-
All mute like marble statues stand,
Nor raise the eye, nor move the hand:
No voice, no sound to stir the air,
The silence of the grave is there.

The kings of Spain for nine days after death are placed sitting in robes of state with their attendants around them, and solemnly summoned by the proper officers to their meals and their amusements, as if living.

The portal opens-hark, a voice!
"Come forth, O king! O king, rejoice!
The bowl is fill'd, the feast is spread,
Come forth, O king!"-The king is dead.
The bowl, the feast, he tastes no more,
The feast of life for him is o'er.

Again the sounding portals shake,
And speaks again the voice that spake :
-"The sun is high, the sun is warm,
Forth to the field the gallants swarm,
The foaming bit the courser champs,
His hoof the turf impatient stamps;
Light on their steeds the hunters spring;
The sun is high-Come forth, O king!"
Along these melancholy walls

In vain the voice of pleasure calls:
The horse may neigh, and bay the hound,-
He hears no more; his sleep is sound.
Retire-once more the portals close;
Leave, leave him to his dread repose.


JEHOVAH reigns: let every nation hear,
And at his footstool bow with holy fear;
Let heaven's high arches echo with his name,
And the wide peopled earth his praise proclaim;
Then send it down to hell's deep glooms resound-
Through all her caves in dreadful murmurs sound-

He rules with wide and absolute command
O'er the broad ocean and the steadfast land:
Jehovah reigns, unbounded, and alone,
And all creation hangs beneath his throne.
He reigns alone; let no inferior nature
Usurp, or share the throne of the Creator.


He saw the struggling beams of infant light Shoot through the massy gloom of ancient night; His spirit hush'd the elemental strife,

And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life: Seasons and months began their long procession, And measured o'er the year in bright succession.

The joyful sun sprung up th' ethereal way, Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay; And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light Superior o'er the dusky brow of night; Ten thousand glittering lamps the skies adorning, Numerous as dew-drops from the womb of morning

Earth's blooming face with rising flowers he drest, And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast; Then from the hollow of his hand he pours The circling water round her winding shores, The new-born world in their cool arms embracing, And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing.

At length she rose complete in finish'd pride, All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride; Fresh with untarnish'd lustre as she stood, Her Maker bless'd his work, and call'd it good; The morning stars with joyful acclamation Exulting sang, and hail'd the new creation.

Yet this fair world, the creature of a day, Though built by God's right hand, must pass


And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things, The fate of empires, and the pride of kings: Eternal night shall veil their proudest story, And drop the curtain o'er all human glory.

The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest,
Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest;
His golden urn shall broke and useless lie,
Amidst the common ruins of the sky;
The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion,
And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean

But fix'd, O God! for ever stands thy throne;
Jehovah reigns, a universe alone;

Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame,
Collected, or diffused, is still the same.

He dwells within his own unfathom'd essence,
And fills all space with his unbounded presence.

But O! our highest notes the theme debase, And silence is our least injurious praise ; Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight control, Revere him in the stillness of the soul; With silent duty meekly bend before him, And deep within your inmost hearts adore him.


PRAISE to God immortal praise,*
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous scource of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ;

For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use;

Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain ;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse ;

All that Spring with bounteous hand
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores :

These to thee, my God, we owe;
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear;
Should the fig tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;

Should the vine put forth no more, Nor the olive yield her store;

Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines, the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat, the flocks shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.-HAB. iii. 17, 18.

Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall;

Should thine alter'd hand restrain The early and the latter rain; Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy:

Yet to thee my soul should raise Grateful vows, and solemn praise; And, when every blessing's flown, Love thee-for thyself alone.



AGAIN the Lord of life and light
Awakes the kindling ray ;
Unseals the eyelids of the morn,
And pours increasing day.

O what a night was that, which wrapt
The heathen world in gloom!
O what a sun which broke this day,
Triumphant from the tomb!

This day be grateful homage paid,
And loud hosannas sung;
Let gladness dwell in every heart,
And praise on every tongue.

Ten thousand differing lips shall join
To hail this welcome morn,
Which scatters blessings from its wings,
To nations yet unborn.

Jesus the friend of human kind,

With strong compassion moved, Descended like a pitying God, To save the souls he loved.

The powers of darkness leagued in vain
To bind his soul in death;

He shook their kingdom when he fell,
With his expiring breath.

Not long the toils of hell could keep
The hope of Judah's line;
Corruption never could take hold
On aught so much divine.

And now his conquering chariot wheels Ascend the lofty skies;

While broke beneath his powerful cross, Death's iron sceptre lies.

Exalted high at God's right hand,

The Lord of all below,

Through him is pardoning love dispensed,

And boundless blessings flow.

And still for erring, guilty man,

A brother's pity flows;
And still his bleeding heart is touch'd
With memory of our woes.

To thee, my Saviour and my King,
Glad homage let me give;
And stand prepared like thee to die,
With thee that I may live.

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