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And, smiling in the arms of death,
A secret hand to me conveyed
My fancy formed her young and fair,
Such was the picture fancy drew,
– But she was waning to the tomb;
Yet shall the friends who loved her weep, Though shrined in peace the sufferer sleep, Though rapt to heaven the saint aspire, With Seraph guards, on wings of fire ; Yet shall they weep ;--for oft and well Remembrance shall her story tell, Affection of her virtues speak, With beaming eye and burning cheek, Each action, word, and look recall ; The last, the loveliest of all, When on the lap of death she lay, Serenely smiled her soul away, And left surviving Friendship's breast Warm with the sunset of her rest.
O thou, who wert on earth unknown,
-When slumber from mine eyes,
If thus to me, sweet saint, be given To learn from thee the hymns of heaven, Thine inspiration will impart Seraphic ardours to my heart; My voice thy music shall prolong, And echo thy entrancing song ; My lyre, with sympathy divine, Shall answer every chord of thine, Till their consenting tones give birth To harmonies unknown on earth. Then shall my thoughts, in living fire Sent down from heaven, to heaven aspire, My verse through lofty measures rise, A scale of glory to the skies, Resembling, on each hallowed theme, The ladder of the patriarch's dream, O’er which descending angels shone, On earthly missions from the throne, Returning by the steps they trod, Up to the Paradise of GOD.
THE DAISY IN INDIA.
THRICE welcome, little English flower !
My mother-country's white and red, In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread : Transplanted from thine island bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth, Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English fower !
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies, Shut close their leaves while vapours lower ;
But, hen the sun's gay beams arise, With unabashed but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west, Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies, Then fold themselves to rest.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
In gorgeous liveries all the year :
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Than all the torrid zone.
Of early scenes beloved by me,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be;
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
I find in this far clime.
Thrice welcome, little English flower !
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand :
The sweet May dews, of that fair land
In every walk !--that here may shoot
Á hundred from one root.
To me the pledge of hope unseen :
For joys that were, or might have been,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
And place in God my trust.
ODE TO THE VOLUNTEERS OF BRITAIN,
ON THE PROSPECT OF INVASION.
Oh, the death of those
Who for their country die,
How beautiful in death
The Warrior's corse appears, Embalmed by fond Affection's breath,
And bathed in Woman's tears !
Their loveliest native earth
Enshrines the fallen brave; In the dear land that gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.
But the wild waves shall sweep
Britannia's foes away,
Be surfeited with prey!
No !-they have 'scaped the waves,
'Scaped the sea-monsters' maws; They come! but oh, shall Gallic slaves
Give English freemen laws ?
By Alfred's spirit, No !
Ring, ring the loud alarms;
Ye heralds, shout “To arms !”
To arms our heroes fly;
And, leading on their lines, The British banner in the sky,
The star of conquest shines.
The lowering battle forms
Its terrible array; Like clashing clouds in mountain storms,
That thunder on their way.
The rushing armies meet ;
And while they pour their breath, The strong earth shudders at their feet,
The day grows dim with death.
Ghosts of the mighty dead,
Your children's hearts inspire ; And while they on your ashes tread, Rekindle all your fire.