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The war-hymo they pour'd, and thy voice was not

there! I call'd thee,-alas, the white deer-skin was brought;

And thy grave was prepared in the tent
Which I had made ready for joy!

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit,-
Ollanahla, all night I weep over thy grave!

To-morrow the victims shall die,
And I shall have joy in revenge.

FOR A COLUMN AT NEWBURY. ART thou a Patriot, Traveller?-On this field Did FALKLAND fall, the blameless and the brave, Beneath a Tyrant's banners-Dost thou boast Of loyal ardour? HAMBDEN perished liere, The rebel HAMBDEN, at whose glorious name The beart of every honest Englishman Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupi, Friends to their common country boil, they fought, They died in adverse armies. Traveller! If with thy neighbour thou shouldst not accord, In charity remember these good men, Apd quell all angry and injurious thoughts.




Now go to the battle, my Boy!

Dear child of my son,
There is strength in thine arm,

There is hope in thy heart,
Thou art ripe for the labours of war.

Thy Sire was a stripling like thee
When he went to the first of his fields.
He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd;

Before him his trophies were borne,
These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the Rain

Have rusted their raven locks.
Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived,

The day of the warrior's reward;
When the banners sun-beaming were spread,

And all hearts were dancing in joy

To the sound of the victory drum. The Heroes were met to receive their reward; But distinguislı'd among the young Heroes that day, The pride of his nation, thy Father was seen : The swan-feathers hung from his neck,

His face like the rainbow was ringed,

And his eye,-how it sparkled in pride! The Elders approach d, and they placed on his brow

The crown that his valour had won, And they gave him the old honour'd vame. They reported thie deeds he had done in the war,


RIVER AVON. Enter this cavern, Stranger! the ascent Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile T'hou mayst repose thee, from the noontide heat Shelter'd bencath this bending vault of rock. Round the rude portal clasping with rough arms, The antique ivy spreads a canopy, From whose grey blossoms the wild bees collect Their last autumnal stores. No common spot Receives thee, for the power who prompts the song Loves this secluded cell. The tide below Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear; And yon high-hanging forest to the wind Varies its many hues. Gaze, Stranger, here! And let thy sofien'd heart intensely feel How good, low lovely, Nature! When from hence Departing to the city's crowded streets, Tliy sickening eye at every step revolts From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect That Man creates the evil he endures.


Tuis mound in some remote and dateless day
Rcard o'er a Chieftain of the Age of Hills,
May here detail thee, Traveller! from thy road
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
Some Warrier sleeps below, whose gallant deeds
Haply at many a solemn festival
The Bard hath harpid; but perishid is the song
Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs
The wind that passes and is heard no more.
Go, Traveller, and remember when the pomp
Of earthly Glory fades, that one good deed,
Unseeu, unleard, unnoted by mankind,
Lives in the eternal register of Heaven.


His relics rest, there by the giddy throng
With blind idolatry alike revered !
Wiselier directed have iliy pilgrim feet
Explored the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAU
Loved these calm liaupts of Solitude and Peace;
Here he has heard the murmurs of the lake,
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,
When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind
Swept a grey shade. Here, if thy breast be full,
If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,
Ilis Sririt shall belold thee, to thine home
From hence relurning, purified of heart.



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llere Latimer and Ridley in the flames FOR A MONUMENT IN THE NEW FOREST.

Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd This is the place where William's kingly power

Uprightly through the world, proud thoughts of joy Did from their poor and peaceful liomes expel, Will fill thy breast in contemplating here Unfriented, desolate, and shelterless,

Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved The habitants of all the fertile track

From the right path, if thou hast sold thy soul, far as these wilds exiend. lle levelld down

And served, with bireling and apostate zeal, Their little cottages, he bade their fields

The cause thy lieari disowns,-oh! cherisha well Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste

The honourable shame that sure this place lle might more royally pursue liis sports !

Will wake within thee, timely penitent, If that thine heart be human, Passenger!

And let the future expiate the past. Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips

1797. Will muster curses on him. Think thou then What cities tiame, what hosts unsepulclired Pollute the passing wind, when raying Power

FOR A MONUMENT IN THE VALE OF EWIAS. Drives on his blood-hounds to the chiuse of Mau; And as ty thoughts anticipate that day

HERE was it, Stranger, that the patron Saint

Of Cambria
When God shall judge aright, in charity


age of penitence, Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.

A solitary man; and here he made
His licrmitage, the roots his food, his drink

Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy youth FOR A TABLET ON THE BANKS OF A STREAM. Has read with eager wonder how the knight

Of Wales in Ormandine's enchanted bower, STRANGER! awhile upon this mossy bank

Slept the long sleep: and if that in thy veins Recline thee. If the Sun rides bigh, the breeze, Flow the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,

llach tlow'd with quicker impulse at the tale Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound

Of David's deeds, when through the press of war Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear

His gallant comrades followù bis green crest It sparkles o'er the shallows, and behold

To conquest. Stranger! Batterill's mountain heights Where o'er ils surface wlicels with restless speed

this fair valc of Ewias, and the stream Yon glossy inseci, on the sand below

Of Hodncy, to thine after-thoughts will rise How the swifi shadow tlits. The stream is pure

More grateful, thus associate with the name In solitude, and many a healthful herb

Of David and the deeds of other days. Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave:

But passing on amid the baunts of man,
It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence
A tainicd tide. Scek'st thou for HAPPINESS?

Go, Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot
OF INNOCENCE, and thou shalı find her there.

UERE Sidney lies, he whom perverted law,

The pliant jury and the bloody judge,
Doom'd to the traitor's death. A tyrant King

Required, an abject country saw and shared

The crime. TI noble cause of Liberty Stranger! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here:

He loved in life, and to that noble cause Ensbrined far distant by the Scoffer's 2 side

To death bore witness. But bis Country rose

Like Sampson from her sleep, and broke her chains, "The northern nations distinguished the two periods when the And proudly with her worthies she enrolla bodies of the dead were consumed by fire, and when they were bu

Her murder'd Sidney's name.

The voice of maa ried beneath the tumuli so common in this country, by th: Age of Fire and the Age of Hills.

Gives honour or destroys; but earthly power • Voltaire.

Gives pot, nor takes away, the self-applause

Which on the scaffold suffering virtue feels,
Nor that which God appointed its reward.


EPITAPH ON KING JOHN. Jonin rests below. A man more infamous Never hail held the sceptre of these realms, And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power The oppressed men of England. Englishman! Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was, Coward and slave, yet he it was who sign'd That Charter which should make thee morn and niglic Be thankful for thy birub-place:--Englisliman! That holy Charter, which, shouldst thou permit Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine, Thy children's groans will persecule thy soul, For they must bear the burthen of thy crime.


Not to be wearied, not to be deterr'd,
Not to be overcome.

A mighty realm
He overran, and with relentless arm
Slew or enslaved its unoffending sons,
And wealth, and power, and fame, were his rewards.
There is another world, beyond the Grave,
According to their deeds where men are judged.
O reader! if thy daily bread be earn'd
By daily labour,-yea, however low,
However wretched be thy lot assign'd,
Thank thou, with deepest gratitude, the God
Who made thee, that thou art not such as he.


IN A FOREST. STRANGER! whose steps have reach'd this solitude, Know that this lonely spot was dear to one Devoted with no unrequited zeal To Nature. Here, delighted he has heard The rustling of these woods, that now perchance Melodious to the gale of summer move; And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock, With grey and yellow lichens overgrowi), Often reclined, watching the silent flow Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals Along its verdant course,- till all around Had fill d his senses with tranquillity, And ever sooth'd in spirit he return'd A lappier, better man. Stranger! perchance, Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye Will glide along, and to the summer gale The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone.


Dere cavern'd like a beast lonorius dwelt
In self-denial, solitude, and prayer,
Long years of penance.

lle had rooted out
All human feelings from his heart, and fled
With fear and loathing from all human joys
As from perdition. But the law of Christ
Enjoins not this. To aid the fatherless,
Comfort the sick, and be the poor man's friend,
And in the wounded beart pour gospel-balm;
These are the active duties of that law,
Which whoso keeps shall have a joy on earth,
Calm, constant, still increasing, preluding
The eternal bliss of leaven. Yet mock not thou,
Stranger, the Anchorile's mistaken zeal!
lle painfully liis painful duties kept,
Sincere though erring: Stranger, do thou keep
Thy belter and thine easier rule as well.



FOR A MONUMENT AT TORDESILLAS. SPANIARD! if thou art one who bows the knee Before a despois footstool, lie thee bence! This ground is holy: liere Padilla died, Martyr of Freedom. But if thou dost love Her cause, stand then as at an altar here, And thank the Almighty that thine honest heart, Full of a brother's feelings for mankind, Rebels against oppression. Not unheard Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer Ascend; for Joftiest impulses will rise To elevate and strengthen thee, and prompt To virtuous action. Relics silver-shrined, And chaunted muss, would wake within the soul Thoughts valueless and cold compared with these.


FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON, Trey suffer'd here whom Jefferies doom'd to death In mockery of all justice, when the Judge Unjust, subservient to a cruel King, Perform d his work of blood. They suffer'd here, The victims of that Judge, and of that King, In mockery of all justice here they bled, Unheard! But not unpitied, nor of God Unseen, the innocent suffered! not in vain The innocent blood cried vengeance! for at levgılı, The indiguant Nation in its power arose, Resistless. Then that wicked Judge look flight, Disguised in vain :- not always is the Lord Slow to revenge! a miserable man Ile fell beneath the people's rage, and still The children curse liis memory.

From his throne The lawless bigot who commission'd him, Inhuman James, was driven. He lived 10 drag Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne, Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame; And that immortal day when on thy shores, La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead!


FOR A COLUMN AT TRUXILLO. Pizarro here was boro; a greater name The list of Glory boasts not. Toil and Pain, Famine and hostile Elements, and Hosts Embattled, fail'd 10 check him in his course,

FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST. ARE days of old familiar to thy mind, O Reader? Hast thou let the midnight hour

Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived
Hith high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs,
Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy
Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain,
Following their dangerous fortunes ? If such lore
Vallı ever thrilld thy bosom, thou wilt tread,
As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts,
Thie Groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born,
Sidney, than whom no ,entler, braver man
His own delightful genius ever feign'd,
Illustrating the vales of Arcady
With courteous courage and with royal loves.
Upou luis natal day the acorn here
Was planted. It grew up a stately oak,
And in the beauty of its strength it stood
And flourislid, when bis perishable part
Vad moulderd dust to Just. That stately oak
Itself hailı moulder'd pow, bui Siduey's fame
Endureth in his own immortal works.


To prey upon her, frequent in attack,
Yet with such tlattering intervals as mock
The hopes of anxious love, and most of all
The sufferer, self-deceived. During those days
Of treacherous respite, many a time hath he,
Who leaves this record of his friend, drawn back
Into the shadow from her social board,
Because 100 surely in her cheek be saw
The insidious bloom of death; and then her smiles
And innocent mirth excited deeper grief
Than when long-look'd-for tidings came at last,
That, all her sufferings ended, she was laid
Amid Madeira's orange groves to rest.
() gentle Emma! o'cr a lovelier form
Than thine, Earth never closed; nor eer did Heaven
Receive a purer spirit from the worid!



EPITAPHI. This to a mother's sacred memory Her son bath hallow'd.

Absent many a year Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still Of that dear voice which soothed his infancy: And after many a fight against the Moor And Malabar, or that fierce Cavalry Which he had seen covering the boundless plain Even to the utmost limits where the eye Could pierce the far horizon,-his first thought In safety was of hier, who wlien she heard The tale of that day's danger, would retire And

pour her pious gratitude to Heaven In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour Of his return, long-look'd-for, came at length, And full of hope he reach'd his native shore. Vain liope that puts its trust in human life! For ere he came the number of her days Was full. O Rcader, what a world were this, Ilow unendurable its weight, if they Whiom Death hath sunder'd did not meet again!


The following Eclogues, I beliere, bear no resemblance to any poems in onr language. This species of composition has become po pular in Germany, and I was induced to attem tit by an account of the German Idylls given me in conversation. They cannot properly be styled imitations, as I am ignorant of that language at present and have never seen any translations or specimeos in this kind.Witb bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityros aod Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. So kind of poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is more distinguished by the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral writers, • more silly than their sheep. - bave, like their sbeep. gone on in the same track one after anorber. Gay stumbled into a new paib. llis eclogues were the only ones which interested me wben I was a boy, and did not know they were burlesque. Tbe subject would furnish matter for an essay, but this is not the place for it. -1799.


STRANGER. Old friend! why you seem beot on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones,-and 'i is a task Somewhat too hard methinks for


like yours!



Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
Upon his back-I 've lived here, man aod boy,
In this same parish, well niglı tlic full age
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten.
I can remember sixty years ago
The beautifying of this mansion here,
When my late Lady's father, the old Squire,
Came to the estate.


Wly then you have outlasted All his improvements, for you see they're making Great alterations here.


llene in the fruitful vales of Somerset
Was Emma born, and here the Maiden grew
To the sweet season of her womanhood
Beloved and lovely, like a plant whose leaf
And bud and blossom all are beautiful.
In peacefulness her virgin years were past;
And when in prosperous wedlock she was given,
Amid the Cumbrian mountains far away
She had her summer bower. 'T was like a dream
Of old Romance to see her wlien she plied
Her little skiff on Derwent's glassy lake;
The roseate evening resting ou the bills,
The lake returning back the lives of heaven,
Mouniains and vales and waters all imbued
With beauty and in quictness; and she,
Nymph-like, amid that glorious solitude
A heavenly presence, sliding in her joy.
But soon a wasting malady began

Aye-great indeed! And if my poor old Lady could rise upGod rest her soul! i would grieve her to behold The wicked work is here.


They 've set about it In right good earnest. All the front is gone; flere's to be turf, they tell me, and a road Round to the door. There were some yew trees too Stood in the court.-


Aye, Master! fine old trees!

She did not love him less that he was old
And feeble, and he always had a place
By the fire-side: and when he died at last
Slie made me dig a grave in the garden for him.
Ah! she was good to all! a woeful day
*T was for the poor when to her grave she went!

My grandfather could just remember back
When they were planted there. It was my task
To keep them trimm'd, and 't was a pleasure to me;
All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall!
My poor old Lady many a time would come
And tell me where to shear, for she had play'd
Io childhood under them, and 't was her pride
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say,
On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of lirs
And your pert poplar trees;-I could as soon
Have ploughi'd my father's grave as cut them down!


They lost a friend then?



But 's will be lighter and more cheerful now;
A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road
Round for the carriage,-now it suits my taste.
I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh;
And then there 's some variety about it.
In spring the lilac and the snow-ball tlower,
And the laburnum with its golden strings
Waving in the wind: And when the autumn comes
The bright red berries of the mountain-ash,
With pines enough in winter to look green,
And show that something lives. Sure this is better
Than a great hedge of yew thai makes it look
All the year round like winter, and for ever
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
Wither'd and bare!


Al! so the new Squire thinks, And pretty work he makes of it! what 't is To have a stranger come to an old house!

STRANGER. It seems you know him not?


No, Sir, not I. They tell me he's expected daily now; But in my Lady's time he never came But once, for they were very distant kin. If he had play'd about here when a child In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, And sate in the porch threading the jessa mine flowers Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart To mar all thus!

You 're a stranger bere,

you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick ?
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs
She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter,
When weekly she distributed the bread
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
The blessings on her! and I warrant them
They were a blessing to her when her wealth
Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!
It would have warm'd

your heart if you had seen
Her Christmas kitchen,- how the blazing fire
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly bouglas
So cheerful red,-and as for miseltoe, -
The finest bough that grew in the country round
Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went
So bountiful about! a Cliristmas cask,
Ånd 't was a noble one!--God help me, Sir!
But I shall never see such days again.

Things may be better yet than you suppose,
you should hope the best.


It don't lock well, --
These alterations, Sir! I'm an old man,
And love the good old fashions; we don't find
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroy'd
All that my Lady loved ; her favourite walk
Grubb'd up,--and they do say that the great row
Of elms behind the house, which meet a-top,
They must fall 100. Well! well! I did not think
To live to see all this, and 't is perlaps
A comfort I sha'n't live to see it long.

But sure all changes are not necds for the worse,
My friend?

May-hap they mayo't, Sir ;--for all that
I like what I've been used to. I remember
All this from a child up, and now to lose it,
*T is losing an old friend. There's nothing left
As 't was;-I go abroad and only meet
With men whose fathers I remeinber boys;
The brook that used to run before my door,
That 's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt
To climb are down; and I see nothing now
That tells me of old times,-except the stones
In the church-yard. You are young, Sir, and I hope
Have many years in store, - but pray to God
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends.

Well! well! you've one friend more than you 're aware of
If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant
That's all you ll quarrel with : walk in and taste
His beer, old friend ! and see if your old Lady
E'er broachi'd a better cask. You did not know me,
But we 're acquainted now.

'T would not be easy To make you like the outside; but within,

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