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O England !—dearer fnr tlinn life is dear,
If I forget thy prowess, never more
Be thy ungrateful son allowed to hear
Thy green leaves rustic, or thy torrents

roar!
But how can He be faithless to the past,
Whose soul, intolerant of base decline,
Saw in thy virtue a celestial sign,
That bade him hope, and to his hope cleave

fast! The nations strove with puissance; — at

length Wide Europe heaved, impatient to be cast, With all her living strength, With all her armed powers, Upon the offensive shores. The trumpet blew a universal blast! But thou art foremost in the field ;—there

stand: Receive the triumph destined to thy Hand! All States have glorified themselves ;—their

claims Are weighed by Providence, in balance even; And now, in preference to the mightiest

names, To Thee the exterminating award is given. Dread mark of approbation, justly gained! Exalted office, worthily sustained!

Imagination, ne'er before content,
But aye ascending, restless in her

pride,
From all that man's performance could

present, Stoops to that closing deed magnificent, And with the embrace is satisfied. —Fly ministers of Fame, Whate'er your means, whatever help ye

claim. Bear through the world these tidings of

delight! Hours, Days and Months, have born them

in the sight Of mortals, travelling faster than the shower, That landward stretches from the sea, The morning's splendors to devour; But this appearance scattered extasy,— And heart-sick Europe blessed the healing power. The shock is given the Adversaries

bleed— Lo. Justice triumphs .'Earth is freed! Such glad assurance suddenly went forth— It pierced the caverns of the sluggish North— It found no barrier on the ridge Of Andes—frozen gulphs became its bridge— The vast Pacific gladdens with the freight— lipon the Lakes of Asia 'tis bestowed— The Arabian desert shapes a willing road

Across her burning breast, For this refreshing incense from the West!

Where snakes and lions breed, Whcr* towns and cities thick as stars appear,

Wherever fruits are gathered, and where'er The upturned soil receives the hopeful Beed— While the Sun rules, and cross the shades

of night— The unwearied arrow hath pursued it*

flight! The eyes of good men thankfully give beed, And in its sparkling progress read How virtue triumphs, from her bondage

freed! Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won, And slaves are pleased to learn that mighty

feats are done; Even the proud realm, from whose distracted

borders This messenger of good was launched in air, France, conquered France, amid her wild

disorders, Feels, and hereafter shall the truth declare. That she too lacks not reason to rejoice. And utter England's name with sadly

plausive voice.

Prcscrve,0 Lord! within our heart* The memory of thy favour, That else, insensibly departs, And loses its sweet savour! Lodge it within us!—As the power of light Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems, Fixed on the front of Eastern diadems. So shine our thankfulness for ever bright! What offering, what transcendant monument Shall our sincerity to Thee present? —Not works of hands; but trophies that

may reach. To highest Heaven—the labour of the soul: That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach, Upon the inward victories of each. Her hope of lasting glory for the whole. —Yet might it well become that City now, Into whose breast the tides of grandeur flow, To whom all persecuted men retreat; If a new temple lifts its votive brow Upon the shore of silver Thames—to greet The peaceful guest advancing from afar? Bright be the distant fabric, as a star Fresh risen—and beautiful within! — there

meet Dcpendance infinite, proportion just; A pile that grace approves, and time can

trust. But if the valiant of this land In reverential modesty demand, Thnt all observance, due to them, be paid Where their serene progenitors are laid; Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saintlike sages. England's illustrious sons of long, long ages; Be it not unnrdained that solemn rites, Within the circuit of those Gothic walls. Shall be performed at pregnant intervals; Commemoration holy thnt unites The living generations with the dead; By the deep soul-moving sense Of religious eloquence,—

By visual pomp, and by the fie Of sweet and threatening harmony; Soft notes, awful as the omen Of destructive tempests coming, And escaping from that sadness Into elevated gladness; While the white-rob'd choir attendant, Under mouldering banners pendant, Provoke all potent symphonies to raise Songs of victory and praise, For them who bravely stood unhurt—or bled With medicable wonnds,or found their graves Upon the battle - field — or under Ocean's

waves; Or were conducted home in single state, And long procession—there to lie, Where their sons' sons, and all posterity, Unheard by them, their deeds shall celebrate!

Nor will the God of peace and love

Such martial service disapprove.

He guides the Pestilence—the cloud

Of locusts travels on his breath;

The region that in hope was ploughed

His drought consumes, his mildew taints with death;

He springs the hushed Volcano's mine,

He puts the Earthquake on her still design,

Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink,

And, drinking towns and cities, still can drink

Cities and towns — 'tis Thou — the work is
Thine!

—The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy
courts—
He hears the word—he flies—
And navies perish in their ports;

For Thou art angry with thine enemies!
For these, and for our errors,
And sins that point their terrors.

We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud

And magnify Thy name, Almighty God!

Rat thy most dreaded instrument,

In working out a pure intent,

Is Man—arrayed for mutual slaughter,— Yea, Carnage is thy daughter!

Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling mail.

And by thy just permission they prevnil;

Thine arm from peril guards the coasts

Of tliem who in thy Taws delight:

Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful fight,

Tremendous God of battles, Lord of Hosts!

To Thek—To Thru— On this appointed Day all thnnks ascend, That thou hast brought our warfare to an

end, And that we need no further victory! Ha! what a ghastly sight for man to see; And to the heavenly saints in peace who

dwell,

For a brief moment, terrible;
But to thy sovereign penetration fair,
Before whom all things are, that were,
All judgments that have been, or e'er shall be,
Links in the chain of thy tranquillity!
Along the bosom of this favoured nation,
Breathe thou, this day, a vital undulation!
Let all who do this land inherit
Be conscious of Thy moving spirit!
Oh, 'tis a goodly Ordinance,—the sight,
Though sprung from bleeding war, is one

of pure delight; Bless thou the hour, or ere the hour arrive, When a whole people shall kneel down in

prayer, And, at one moment, in one spirit, strive With lip and heart to tell their gratitude

For thy protecting care, Their solemn joy—praising the Eternal Lord

For tyranny subdued, And for the sway of equity renewed, For liberty confirmed, and peace restored!

But hark—the summons!—down the placid

Lake Floats the soft cadence of the Church-towerbells; Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams might

wake The tender insects sleeping in their cells; Bright shines the Sun — and not a breeze

to shake The drops that point the melting icicles:— O! enter now his temple-gate! Inviting words—perchance already Hung, (As the crowd press devoutly down the aisle Of some old minster's venerable pile) From voices into zealous passion stung, While the tubed engine feels the inspiring

blast, And has begun—its clouds of sound to cast Towards the empyreal Heaven, As if the fretted roof were riven. Us, humbler ceremonies now await; But in the bosom, with devout respect, The banner of our joy we will erect. And strength of love our souls Bhnll elevate: For to a few collected in his name Their heavenly Father will incline his ear, Hallowing himself the service which they

frame;— Awake! the majesty of God revere! Go—and with foreheads meekly bowed Present your prayers — go — and rejoice aloud— The Holy One will hear! And what 'mid silence deep, with faith sincere, Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, Shall simply feel and purely meditate Of warnings—from the unprecedented might, Which, in our time, the impious have disclosed; And of more arduous duties thence imposed Upon the future advocates of right;

Of mysteries revealed,
And judgments unrepealed,—
Of earthly revolution,
And final retribution,—
To his omniscience will appear
An offering not unworthy to find place,
On this high Day Of Thinks, before the
Throne of Grace!

LINES

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I Heard a thousand blended notes,
While in n grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through prinirose-tufts.in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played:
Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread ont their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man 1

COMPOSED

IN RECOLLECTION OF TUB EXPEDITION OF THE
FRENCH INTO RUSSIA.

Humanity, delighting to behold
A fond reflexion of her own decay.
Hath painted Winter like a shrunken, old.
And close-wrapt Traveller — through the

weary day— Propped on a staff, ami limping o'er the

plain, As though his weakness were disturbed by

pain; Or, if a juster fancy should allow An undisputed symbol of command, The chosen sceptre is a withered bough,

Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand. These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn; But mighty Winter the device shall srorn. For he it was—dread Winter!—who beset Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net, That host, — when from the regions of the

Pole

They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal, That host—as huge and strong as e'er defied Their God, and placed their trust in human

pride! As Fathers persecute rebellious sons. He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth; He called on Frost's inexorable tooth Life to consume in manhood's firmest hold; Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly

runs,— For why, unless for liberty enrolled And sacred home, ah! why should hoary

age be bold?— Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed,— But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, Which from Siberian caves the monarch

freed, And sent him forth, with squadrons of his

kind. And bade the Snow their ample backs

bestride, And to the battle ride;— No pitying voice commands a halt— No courage can repel the dire assault,— Distracted, spiritless, benumbed and blind, Whole legions sink— and, in one instant, find Burial and death: look for them—and descry. When morn returns, beneath the clear blue

»i<y,

A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy.

ELEGIAC STANZAS,

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PfELE-0 ARTLR. IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR Gkorce

Beaumont.

I Was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer-weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there;
It trembled, but it never pass'd away.

How perfect was the calm! it scenfd no

sleep; No mood, which season takes away, or

brings: I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. Ah! Then, if mine had been the Painter's

hand, To express what then I saw; and add the

gleam. The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the l'oet's dream;

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile! Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss:

Thou shnuldst have seem'd a treasure-house,

a mine
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven:—
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
The very sweetest had to thee been given.

A Picture had it been of lasting case,
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
Such Picture would I at that time have

made: And seen the soul of truth in every part; A faith, a trust, that could not bo betray'd.

So once it would have been,—'tis so no more;
I have submitted to a new control:
A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
A deep distress hath humaniz'd my Soul.

Not for a moment could I now behold
A smiling sea and be what I have been:
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be ojd;
This, which I know, I speak with mind
serene.

Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend,

If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,

This work of thine I blame not, but commend;

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

Oh 'tis a passionate work! — yet wise and

well; Well chosen is the spirit that is. here; That hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
I love to sec the look with which it braves,
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
The lightning, the fierce wind, nnd trampling
waves.

Farewell, farewell the Heart that lives alone,
Hous'd in n dream, at distance from the Kind!
Such happiness, wherever it be known,
It to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be born! Such sights, or worse, us are before me

here.— Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

LINES,

composed st Ghasmkek, during a walk, ono evening , alter a stormy day, tin: Author having Just read in a newspaper that the dissolution ot Mr. Fox waa hourly expected.

Lorn is the Vale! the Voice is up

With which she speaks when storms are

gone, A mighty Unison of strenms! Of all her Voices, One.

Loud is the Vale;—this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the Sea;
Yon Star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, ev'n to pain deprcss'd,
Importunate and heavy load!
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;

And many thousands now are sad,
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For He must die who is their Stay,
Their Glory disappear.

A Power is passing from the earth
To breath less Nature's dark abyss;
But when the Mighty pass away
What is it more than this:

That Man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return?—
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then whercforo should we mourn?

ADDRESSED TO

ON Till'. LONGEST DAY.

Lkt ns quit the leafy arbour,
And the torrent murmuring by;
Sol has dropped into his harbour,
Weary of the open sky.

Evening now unbinds the fetters
Fashioned by the glowing light;
All that breathe are thankful debtors
Te the harbinger of night.

Yet by some grave thoughts attended
Eve renews her calm career;
For the day that now is ended,
Is the Longest of the Year.

Laura! sport, as now thou spnrtest,
On this platform, light and free,
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest,
Are indifferent to thee!

Who would check the happy feeling
That inspires the linnet's songV
Who would stop the swallow wheeling
On her pinions swift and strong?

Yet, at this impressive season,
Words, which tenderness can speak
From the truths of homely reason,
Might exalt the loveliest cheek;

And, while shades to shades succeeding
Steal the landscape from the sight,
I would urge this moral pleading.
Last forerunner of "Good night!"

Summer ebbs;—each day that follows
Is a reflux from on high,
Tending to the darksome hollows
Where the frosts of winter lie.

He who governs the creation,
In his providence assigned
Such a gradual declination
To the life of humankind.

Yet we mark it not;—fruits redden.
Fresh flowers blow as flowers have blown,
And the heart is loth to deaden
Hopes that she so long hath known.

Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden!
And, when thy decline shall come,
Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden,
Hide the knowledge of thy doom.

Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber,
Fix thine eyes upon the sea
That absorbs time, space, and number,
Look towards Eternity!

Follow thou the flowing River
On whose breast arc thither borne
All Deceiv'd, and each Deceiver,
Through the gates of night and morn;

Through the years' successive portals;
Through the bounds which ninny a star
Marks, not mindless of frail mortals
■When his light returns from far.

Thus, when Thou with Time hast travell'd
Tow'rds the mighty gulph of things.
And the mazy Stream unravcll'd
With thy best imaginings;

Tkink, if thou on beauty leanest,
Think how pitiful that stay.
Did not virtue give the meanest
Charms superior to decay.

Duty, like a strict preceptor,
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown;
Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,
While thy brow youth's roses crown.

Grasp it.—if thou shrink and tremble,
Fairest Damsel of the green!
Thou wilt lack the only symbol
That proclaims a genuine Queen;

And ensures those palms of honour
Which selected spirits wear,
Bending low before the Donor,
Lord of Heaven's unchanging Year!

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE EVE OF A NEW TE1R.

Smile of the Moon!—for so I name
That silent greeting from above;
A gentle flash of lijrht that came
From Her whom drooping captives love;
Or art thou of still higher birth?
Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,
My torpor to reprove!

Bright boon of pitying Heaven—alas,
I may not trust thy placid cheer!
Pondering that Time to-night will pass
The threshold of another year;
For years to.nie are sad and dull;
My very moments are too full
Of hopelessness and fear.

And yet, the soul-awakening gleam,
That struck perchance the farthest cone
Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem
To visit me, and me alone;
Me, unapproach'd by any friend.
Save those who to my sorrows lend
Tears due unto their own.

To-night, the cburch-tower-bells shall ring,
Through these wide realms, a festive peal;
To the new year a welcoming;
A tuneful offering for the weal
Of happy millions lulled in sleep;
While I am forced to watch and weep,
By wounds that may not heal.

Born all too high, by wedlock raised
Still higher—to be cast thus low:
Would that mine eyes had never gaz'd
On aught of more ambitious show
Than the sweet flow'rets of the fields!
—It is my royal state that yields
This bitterness of woe.

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