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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
Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit,-
To-morrow the victims shall die,
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.
THE OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON.
Now go to the battle, my Boy!
Dear child of my son,
There is hope in thy heart,
Thy Sire was a stripling like thee
Before him his trophies were borne,
Have rusted their raven locks.
The day of the warrior's reward;
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,
FOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS THE
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.
FOR A TABLET AT SILBURY-HILL.'
His relics rest, there by the giddy throng
FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFORD.
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
age of penitence, Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.
A solitary man; and here he made
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:
EPITAPH ON ALGERNON SIDNEY.
UERE Sidney lies, he whom perverted law,
The pliant jury and the bloody judge,
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,
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,
A mighty realm
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.
FOR THE CELL OF HONORIUS, AT THE CORK
CONVENT, NEAR CINTRA.
lle had rooted out
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
To prey upon her, frequent in attack,
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.
THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE.
STRANGER. Old friend! why you seem beot on parish duty, Breaking the highway stones,-and 'i is a task Somewhat too hard methinks for
Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
Wly then you have outlasted All his improvements, for you see they're making Great alterations here.
llene in the fruitful vales of Somerset
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
My grandfather could just remember back
They lost a friend then?
But 's will be lighter and more cheerful now;
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 ?
your heart if you had seen
It don't lock well, --
'T would not be easy To make you like the outside; but within,