TO A FRIEND,

INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH

AGAIN.

1.

Do I regret the past?
Would I again live o'er

The morning hours of life?

Nay, William! nay, not so!

In the warm joyance of the summer sun
I do not wish again

The changeful April day.
Nay, William! nay, not so!
Safe haven'd from the sea,
I would not tempt again
The uncertain ocean's wrath.

Praise be to Him who made me what I am,
Other I would not be.

2.

Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk

Of days that are no more?
When in his own dear home
The traveller rests at last,

And tells how often in his wanderings

Nor to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!

The Spirit is not there
Which kindled that dead eye,
Which throbb'd in that cold heart,
Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp.
The Spirit is not there!
It is but lifeless perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave;

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles
Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Follow thy friend beloved,

The spirit is not there!

2.

Often together have we talk'd of death;
How sweet it were to see
All doubtful things made clear;
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the Cherubim,
To view the depth of Heaven!
O Edmund! thou hast first

K:

THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE BODY OF HIS FATHER.

1.

REST in peace, my Father, rest!

With danger and toil have I borne thy corpse

From the Stranger's field of death.

I bless thee, O Wife of the Sun,
For veiling thy beams with a cloud,
While at the pious task
Thy votary toil'd in fear.

Thou badest the clouds of night
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man;
But didst thou not see my toil,
And put on the darkness to aid,
O Wife of the visible God?

2.

Wretched, my Father, thy life!
Wretched the life of the Slave!

All day for another he toils;
Overwearied at night he lies down,

And dreams of the freedom that once he enjoy❜d.
Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth,
My Father! for then thou wert free.
In the fields of the nation thy hand
Bore its part of the general task;

And when with the song and the dance,
Ye brought the harvest home,
As all in the labour had shared,
So justly they shared in the fruits.

3.

Thou visible Lord of the Earth,
Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart,
O Giver of light and of life!
When the Strangers came to our shores,
Why didst thou not put forth thy power?
Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd,
Thy fires should in lightnings have flash'd! . .
Visible God of the Earth,

The Strangers mock at thy might!
To idols and beams of wood
They force us to bow the knee;
They plunge us in caverns and dens,
Where never thy blessed light
Shines on our poisonous toil!
But not in the caverns and dens,
O Sun, are we mindless of thee!
We pine for the want of thy beams,
We adore thee with anguish and groans.

4.

My Father, rest in peace!

Rest with the dust of thy Sires!

They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp;...
They bore thee to their burial place,
And over thy breathless frame
Their bloody and merciless Priest

Mumbled his magic hastily.
Oh! could thy bones be at peace

In the field where the Strangers are laid? . . .
Alone, in danger and in pain,
My Father, I bring thee here:

So may our God, in reward,
Allow me one faithful friend

To lay me beside thee when I am released!
So may he summon me soon,
That my Spirit may join thee there,
Where the Strangers never shall come !

Exeter, 1799

SONG OF THE ARAUCANS

DURING A THUNDER STORM.

THE storm-cloud grows deeper above; Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky; Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss, They come to the war of the winds.

The Souls of the Strangers are there,

In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven;

Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill
Is red with their weapons of fire.

Hark! hark! in the howl of the wind The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums; The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight Is the blast that disbranches the wood.

Behold from the clouds of their power The lightning,.. the lightning is lanced at our sires! And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of Heaven!

And the darkness that quenches the day!

Ye Souls of our Fathers, be brave! Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth, Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire; Brave Spirits, ye tremble not now!

We gaze on your warfare in hope,

We send up our shouts to encourage your arms! Lift the lance of your vengeance, O Fathers, with force,

For the wrongs of your country strike home!

Remember the land was your own When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas; That the old fell asleep in the fulness of days, And their children wept over their graves.

Till the Strangers came into the land With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire : Then the strength of the people in youth was cut off, And the father wept over his son.

It thickens. . the tumult of fight! Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard!.. Remember the wrongs that your country endures ! Remember the fields of your fame!

OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON.

1.

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.

2.

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 distinguish'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 tinged, 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 name. They reported the deeds he had done in the war, And the youth of the nation were told To respect him and tread in his steps.

3.

My Boy! I have seen, and with hope, The courage that rose in thine eye When I told thee the tale of his death. His war-pole now is grey with moss,

His tomahawk red with rust; His bowstring whose twang was death Now sings as it cuts the wind; But his memory is fresh in the land And his name with the names that we love.

4.

Go now and revenge him, my Boy! That his Spirit no longer may hover by day O'er the hut where his bones are at rest, Nor trouble our dreams in the night. My Boy, I shall watch for the warriors' return, And my soul will be sad

Till the steps of thy coming I see.

Westbury, 1799.