Wide wastes and mighty wrecks around her lie,
And the earth trembles at her impious cry!
Whether her temple, wet with human gore, She thus may raise on Gallia's ravag’d shore, Belongs to Him alone, and His high will, Who bids the tempests of the world be still.*
With joy we turn to Albion's happier plain,
Where ancient Freedom holds her temperate reign;
Where Justice sits majestic on her throne;
Where Mercy turns her ear to every groan!
O Albion! fairest isle, whose verdant plain
Springs beauteous from the blue and billowy main;
In peaceful pomp whose glitt'ring cities rise,
And lift their crowded temples to the skies;
Whose navy on the broad brine awful rolls;
Whose commerce glows beneath the distant poles;
Whose streams reflect full many an Attick pile;
Whose velvet lawns in long luxuriance smile;
These lines were written before the murder of the late King of France, and many of the events of horror which have since taken place in that miserable country.
Amid whose winding coombs contentment dwells,
Whose vales rejoice to hear the sabbath bells;
Whose humblest shed, that steady laws protect,
The villager with woodbine bow'rs hath deck'd.
Sweet Native Land! whose every haunt is dear,
Whose ev'ry gale is musick to mine ear;
Amidst whose hills one poor retreat I sought,
Where I might sometimes hide a sadd'ning thought,
And having wander'd far, and mark'd mankind
In their vain mask, might rest and safety find.
Oh! still may Freedom with majestick mien
Pacing thy rocks and the green vales be seen!
Around thy cliffs that glitter o'er the main,
May smiling Order wind her silver chain;
Whilst from thy calm abodes, and azure skies,
Far off the fiend of Discord murmuring flies!
TO HIM, who firm thy injur'd cause has fought, This humble offering, lo! the muse has brought: Nor heed thou, BURKE! if, with averted eye Scowling, cold Envy may thy worth decry.
It is the lot of man:-the best oft mourn,
As sad they journey through this cloudy bourne:
If conscious Genius stamp their chosen breast,
And on the forehead shew her seal imprest,
Perhaps they mourn, in bleak misfortune's shade,
Their age and cares with penury repaid;
Their errors deeply scann'd, their worth forgot,
Or mark'd by hard injustice with a blot.
If high they soar, and keep their distant way,
And spread their ample pinions to the day,
Malignant Faction hears with hate their name,
And all her tongues are busy at their fame.
But 'tis enough to hold, as best we may,
Our destin'd track, till sets the closing day;
Whether with living lustre we adorn
Our high sphere, like the radiance of the morn;
Or whether silent in the shade we move,
Cheer'd by the lonely star of pensive love;
Or whether dark-opposing storms we stem,
Panting for virtue's distant diadem;
'Tis the unshaken mind, the conscience pure,
That bids us firmly act, or meek endure;
'Tis this might shield us when the storm beat hard, Content, though poor, had we no other guard !*
IF I could bid thee, pleasant shade, farewell
Without a sigh, amidst whose circling bow'rs
My stripling prime was pass'd, and happiest hours,
Dead were I to the sympathies that swell
The human breast! These woods, that whispering wave,
My father rear'd and nurs'd, now to the grave
Gone down; he lov'd their peaceful shades, and said Perhaps, as here he mus'd, "Live, laurels green; "Ye pines, that shade the solitary scene,
"Live blooming and rejoice: when I am dead
My son shall guard you, and amid your bow'rs, "Like me, find shelter from life's beating show'rs."
These thoughts, my father, every spot endear; And whilst I think, with self-accusing pain,
ON LEAVING A PLACE OF RESIDENCE.
A stranger shall possess the lov'd domain,
In each low wind I seem thy voice to hear.
But these are shadows of the shaping brain
That now my heart, alas! can ill sustain-
We must forget-the world is wide-th' abode
Of peace may still be found, nor hard the road.
It boots not, so, to every chance resign'd,
Where'er the spot, we bear th' unalter'd mind.
Yet, oh! poor cottage, and thou sylvan shade,
Remember, ere I left your coverts green
Where in my youth I mus'd, in childhood play'd,
I gaz'd, I paus'd, I dropp'd a tear unseen,
(That bitter from the font of memory fell)
Thinking on him who rear'd you-Now, farewell.
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