For beautiful in death

The warrior's corpse appears,
Embalm'd by found Affection's breath,
And bathed in woman's tears.

Give me the death of those
Who for their country die;
And O be mine like their repose,
When cold and low they lie!

Their loveliest mother Earth
Enshrines the fallen brave;

In her sweet lap who gave them birth
They find their tranquil grave.

THE VIGIL OF ST. MARK.

RETURNING from their evening walk,
On yonder ancient stile,
In sweet, romantic, tender talk,
Two lovers paused awhile:

Edmund, the monarch of the dale,

All conscious of his powers; Ella, the lily of the vale,

The rose of Auburn's bowers.

In airy Love's delightful bands

He held her heart in vain;
The Nymph denied her willing hands
To Hymen's awful chain.

"Ah! why," said he, "our bliss delay?
Mine Ella, why so cold?
Those who but love from day to day,
From day to day grow old.

"The bounding arrow cleaves the sky, Nor leaves a trace behind;

And single lives, like arrows fly,

-They vanish through the wind. "In Wedlock's sweet endearing lot Let us improve the scene, That some may be, when we are not, To tell-that we have been."

She spake, and, like the nimble fawn,
From Edmund's presence fled:

He sought, across the rural lawn,
The dwelling of the dead;
That silent, solemn, simple spot,

The mouldering realm of peace,
Where human passions are forgot,
Where human follies cease.

The gliding moon through heaven serene
Pursued her tranquil way,

And shed o'er all the sleeping scene
A soft nocturnal day.

With swelling heart and eager feet
Young Edmund gain'd the church,
And chose his solitary seat
Within the dreadful porch.

Thick, threatening clouds assembled soon,
Their dragon wings display'd;
Eclipsed the slow retiring moon,

And quench'd the stars in shade.

Amid the deep abyss of gloom
No ray of beauty smiled,
Save, glistening o'er some haunted tomb,
The glow-worm's lustre wild.

The village watch-dogs bay'd around,
The long grass whistled drear,
The steeple trembled to the ground,
Ev'n Edmund quaked with fear.

All on a sudden died the blast,

Dumb horror chill'd the air,
While Nature seem'd to pause aghast,
In uttermost despair.

-Twelve times the midnight herald toll'd:
As oft did Edmund start;

For every stroke fell dead and cold
Upon his fainting heart.

Then glaring through the ghastly gloom,
Along the church-yard green,
The destined victims of the tomb
In winding-sheets were seen.

In that strange moment Edmund stood,
Sick with severe surprise;
While creeping horror drank his blood,
And fix'd his flinty eyes.

He saw the secrets of the grave;
He saw the face of DEATH;
No pitying power appear'd to save—
He gasp'd away his breath.

Yet still the scene his soul beguiled,
And every spectre cast
A look, unutterably wild,

On Edmund as they pass'd.

All on the ground entranced he lay;
At length the vision broke:
-When, lo!-a kiss, as cold as clay,
The slumbering youth awoke.

313

That moment through a rifted cloud

The darting moon display'd, Robed in a melancholy shroud, The image of a maid.

Her dusky veil aside she threw,

And show'd a face most fair; "My Love! my Ella!" Edmund flew, And clasp'd the yielding air.

"Ha! who art thou?" His cheek grew pale: A well-known voice replied, "Ella, the lily of the vale;

Ella-thy destined bride."

To win his neck, her airy arms
The pallid phantom spread;
Recoiling from her blasted charms,
The affrighted lover fled.

To shun the visionary maid

His speed outstript the wind;

But, though unseen to move, the shade
Was evermore behind.

So Death's unerring arrows glide,
Yet seem suspended still;

Nor pause, nor shrink, nor turn aside,
But smite, subdue, and kill.

O'er many a mountain, moor, and vale,
On that tremendous night.
The ghost of Ella, wild and pale,
Pursued her lover's flight.

But when the dawn began to gleam,
Ere yet the morning shone,
She vanish'd like a nightmare-dream,
And Edmund stood alone.

Three days, bewilder'd and forlorn,
He sought his home in vain;
At length he hail'd the hoary thorn
That crown'd his native plain.

"T was evening;-all the air was balm,
The heavens serenely clear;
When the soft music of a psalm
Came pensive o'er his ear.

Then sunk his heart;-a strange surmise
Made all his blood run cold:
He flew, a funeral met his eyes:
He paused,-a death-bell toll'd.

""Tis she! 't is she!"-He burst away;
And bending o'er the spot
Where all that once was Ella lay,
He all beside forgot.

A maniac now, in dumb despair,
With love-bewildered mien,

He wanders, weeps, and watches there,
Among the hillocks green.

And every Eve of pale St. Mark, As village hinds relate,

He walks with Ella in the dark, And reads the rolls of Fate.

HANNAH.

AT fond sixteen my roving heart
Was pierced by Love's delightful dart:
Keen transport throbb'd through every vein.
-I never felt so sweet a pain!

Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I met the dear romantic maid:

I stole her hand, it shrunk,—but no;

I would not let my captive go.

With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth.
I mark'd my Hannah's downcast eye,
"T was kind, but beautifully shy.

Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamour'd, wooes young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the Sun her blushing face.

But, swifter than the frighted dove, Fled the gay morning of my love; Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon, Should vanish in so dark a noon.

The angel of Affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He pour'd his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.

Yet, in the glory of my pride,

I stood, and all his wrath defied;
I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain,
And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.

I shunn'd my nymph;-and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye;

I shunn'd her-for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.

Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,

Oft the dear image of that maid Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind, And promised happiness behind.

The storm blew o'er, and in my breast The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest: The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild The sea of Youth and Pleasure smiled.

"T was on the merry morn of May,
To Hannah's cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the Spring.

Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er, I lived my wooing days once more; And fancy sketch'd my married lot, My wife, my children, and my cot.

I saw the village steeple rise.-
My soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes:
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,-
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear.

I reach'd the hamlet-all was gay;
I love a rustic holiday.

I met a wedding,-stepp'd aside;
It pass'd-my Hannah was the bride.

-There is a grief that cannot feel; It leaves a wound that will not heal;

-My heart grew cold,-it felt not then: When shall it cease to feel again?

A FIELD FLOWER.

On finding one in full bloom, on Christmas Day, 1803.

THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honors yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground In honor of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

"Tis Flora's page ;-in every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The Rose has but a summer reign,
The Daisy never dies.

Winter's gloomy night withdrawn,
Lo! the young romantic Hours
Search the hill, the dale, the lawn,
To behold the Snow-drop white
Start to light,

And shine in Flora's desert bowers;
Beneath the vernal dawn,
The Morning Star of Flowers.

O welcome to our isle,
Thou Messenger of Peace!
At whose bewitching smile
The embattled tempests cease:
Emblem of Innocence and Truth,
First-born of Nature's womb,
When strong in renovated youth,
She bursts from Winter's tomb;
Thy parent's eye hath shed
A precious dew-drop on thine head,
Frail as a mother's tear
Upon her infant's face,
When ardent hope to tender fear,
And anxious love, gives place.
But, lo! the dew-drop flits away,
The sun salutes thee with a ray

hen joy to the tempest that whelms them beneath, nd makes their destruction its sport;

ut woe to the winds that propitiously breathe,

nd waft them in safety to port,

The life-blood from Africa's veins;

Where man rules o'er man with a merciless rod,
And spurns at his footstool the image of God.

The hour is approaching,—a terrible hour!
And Vengeance is bending her bow;
Already the clouds of the hurricane lower,
And the rock-rending whirlwinds blow:
Back rolls the huge Ocean, Hell opens below:
The floods return headlong, they sweep
The slave-cultured lands to the deep,
In a moment entomb'd in the horrible void,
By their Maker Himself in his anger destroy'd.
Shall this be the fate of the cane-planted isles,
More lovely than clouds in the west,
When the sun o'er the ocean descending in smiles,
Sinks softly and sweetly to rest?

-No-Father of mercy! befriend the opprest;
At the voice of thy Gospel of peace
May the sorrows of Africa cease;
And slave and his master devoutly unite

To walk in thy freedom, and dwell in thy light!"

As homeward my weary-wing'd Fancy extends
Her star-lighted course through the skies,
High over the mighty Atlantic ascends,
And turns upon Europe her eyes:

Ah, me! what new prospects, new horrors arise?
I see the war-tempested flood

All foaming, and panting with blood;
The panic-struck Ocean in agony roars,
Rebounds from the battle, and flies to his shores.

For Britannia is wielding the trident to-day,
Consuming her foes in her ire,

And hurling her thunder with absolute sway

From her wave-ruling chariots of fire:

Though poor were your fathers,-gigantic and bold, We were not, we could not be, slaves;

But firm as our rocks, and as free as our waves,

The spears of the Romans we broke,

We never stoop'd under their yoke:

In the shipwreck of nations we stood up alone,

The world was great Cæsar's-but Britain our own.

For ages and ages, with barbarous foes,

The Saxon, Norwegian, and Gaul,

We wrestled, were foil'd, were cast down, but we rose With new vigor, new life, from each fall:

By all we were conquer'd-WE CONQUER'D THEM ALL. -The cruel, the cannibal mind,

We soften'd, subdued, and refined;

Bears, wolves, and sea-monsters, they rush'd from their den;

We taught them, we tamed them, we turned them

to men.

Love led the wild hordes in his flower-woven bands, The tenderest, strongest of chains:

Love married our hearts, he united our hands,
And mingled the blood in our veins;

One race we became :-on the mountains and plains,
Where the wounds of our country were closed,
The Ark of Religion reposed,

The unquenchable Altar of Liberty blazed,
And the Temple of Justice in Mercy was raised.

"Ark, Altar, and Temple, we left with our breath! To our children, a sacred bequest ;

O guard them, O keep them, in life and in death!
So the shades of your fathers shall rest,

And your spirits with ours be in Paradise blest:
-Let Ambition, the sin of the brave,

And Avarice, the soul of a slave,

To spread her invincible name;

-The universe rings with her fame;

-But the cries of the fatherless mix with her praise,
And the tears of the widow are shed on her bays.

O Britain! dear Britain! the land of my birth;
O Isle, most enchantingly fair!

Thou Pearl of the Ocean! thou Gem of the Earth!

O my Mother! my Mother! beware;

For wealth is a phantom, and empire a snare :
O let not thy birth-right be sold

For reprobate glory and gold:

Thy distant dominions like wild graftings shoot, They weigh down thy trunk,-they will tear up thy

From Liberty, Justice, Religion, AT HOME.'

THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,

There lived a Man:-and WHO WAS HE?
-Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone:

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast:
His bliss and woe,-a smile, a tear!
-Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

317