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In such a scene of dread and woe,
Well might he make a solemn vow,
That if some Mercy-loving Pow'r
Should guard him in that evil hour,
To him a stately fane should rise,
A refuge from these wrathful skies,
A monument of gratitude
Amid this fiery solitude!

Perhaps the prayer was not in vain,
And hence this fabric decks the plain.
And if, as old traditions say,
The spirit, parted from its clay,
Shall still with former feelings throng
Round scenes and objects lov'd so long,
How must it gratify his shade,
To hear the homage hourly paid,
To hear the fainting traveller cry,

With throbbing breast, and tear-dimm'd eye,
"A thousand blessings on the hand
"That first these sacred turrets plann'd,
"And plac'd this kind asylum here,
"The lone way-faring man to cheer!"

England! my country! tho' thou art
Entwin'd around my very heart,
Canst thou the solemn truth deny,
A truth impress'd on every eye,
That while ONE stranger houseless lies
Beneath thine ever-varying skies,
Thou art in charity outdone
By Asia's rude, untutor'd son !

Batticaloa, Oct. 1815.

ADDRESS OF WINTER, TO TIMOUR.

Versified from Sir John Malcolm's History of Persia.

BY MISS PORDEN.

KEEN blew the sleety gale, the scene was drear,
One sheet of white the hills and plains appear,

Vast blocks of ice obstruct the rapid floods,
And hills of snow conceal the sable woods,

Nor bird, nor beast, nor living thing was seen,

Nor flower, nor fruit, nor blade of herbage green
All Nature knew the appointed time of rest,
And sheltered, slept in earth's maternal breast.

Man's

Man's heart alone no change of season knows,
And proud ambition stoops not to repose!
The tyrant's troops, regardless of the blast,
Blacken with countless hordes the silvery waste.
High on his Tartar steed the conqueror rode.
And led his myriads o'er the frozen flood;
When lo! amid a realm of subject snows,
In awful pride, gigantic Winter rose.
His hand, with arrows filled, was lifted high,
A ghastly gleam was in his frozen eye;
Like some vast mountain his stupendous form,
His voice the howling of the Alpine storm.
It lacked the melody of living breath,
And chill'd the spirit as the voice of Death.
"Behold the mighty conqueror, who defies,
"Not man alone, but these inclement skies.
"Yet though thy dreadful warriors onward ride,
"Nor fawn the elements, to sooth thy pride,
"Round thy warm limbs my icy robe I cast,

'I give thee to the snow, the hail, the blast;
"Yon hill-the Spirit of the Storm is there,
"And bids thee, tyrant, stop thy rash career.
"No longer shalt thou wrap the world in flame;
"Art thou a spirit of vengeance? I the same.
"Slaves to subdue, we use our power alike,
"When baneful stars in dire conjunction strike.
"How terrible their force! but on! be bold!
"Make earth's best region desolate and cold,
"Then in the impotence of fury pine,

"To find at length thy blasts less keen than mine.
"If thou canst glory in unnumbered bands,
"That waste, destroy, o'erwhelm the fairest lands,
"With heavenly aid my storms as widely sweep,
"Thy lance is keen, my arrow strikes as deep!
"And on thy head, by Him that governs all,
"The deadliest venom of my wrath shall fall,
"Not all thy fires, thyself, thine host shall save
"From the cold sleep, the tempest's icy grave."

TO BRITAIN.

From "Thoughts on Wheels," a Poem by J. Montgomery.

I Love Thee, O my native ISLE !
Dear as my mother's earliest smile,
Sweet as my father's voice to me
Is all I hear and all I see ;

VOL LVIII.

When

When glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy Public Virtues stand,
The Guardian-angels of thy coast,
To watch the dear domestic Host,
The Heart's Affections, pleased to roam
Around the quiet heaven of Home.

I love Thee,-when I mark thy soil Flourish beneath the Peasant's toil, And from its lap of verdure throw Treasures which neither Indies know.

I love Thee,-when I hear around
Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound,
Thine Engines heaving all their force,
Thy waters labouring on their course,
And Arts, and Industry, and Wealth,
Exulting in the joys of Health.

I love Thee,-when I trace thy tale
To the dim point where records fail;
Thy deeds of old renown inspire
My bosom with our fathers' fire;
A proud inheritance I claim

In all their sufferings, all their fame :
Nor less delighted, when I stray

Down History's lengthening, widening way,
And hail thee in thy present hour,
From the meridian arch of power,
Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
Like sunshine over land and main.

I love Thee-when I read the lays
Of British Bards in elder days,
Till, rapt on visionary wings,
High o'er thy cliffs my Spirit sings;
For I, amidst thy living choir,
I too, can touch the sacred lyre.

I love Thee,-when I contemplate
The full-orb'd grandeur of thy state;
Thy laws and liberties, that rise
Man's noblest works beneath the skies,
To which the Pyramids are tame,
And Grecian Temples bow their fame :
These, thine immortal Sages wrought
Out of the deepest mines of thought;
These, on the scaffold, in the field,
Thy Warriors won, thy Patriots seal'd;

These,

These, at the parricidal pyre,

Thy Martyrs sanctified in fire;

And with the generous blood they spilt

Wash'd from thy soil their murderers' guilt,
Cancell'd the curse, which Vengeance sped,
And left a blessing in its stead.

-Can words, can numbers, count the price
Paid for this little Paradise?

Never, O never be it lost,

The land is worth the price it cost!