In Albion's ancient days, midst northern snows, Hardy and bold, inmortal FREEDOM rose. She roam'd the sounding margin of the deep, Conway's wild bank, and Cader's craggy steep: A bloody wolf-skin o'er her back was spread; An axe she bore; and wild weeds * grac'd her head. On Snowdon's cliffs reclin'd the watch'd on high The tempest-driven clouds, that cross'd the sky; Or caught with listening ear the sounding gale, When the dread war-song shook the distant dale. At battle's close she roam'd the ensanguin'd plain, And gaz'd the threatening aspects of the slain. Now from ignoble sloth she rarely rose, For savage freedom sinks to mute repose; Now to wild joys, and the bowl's maddening powers Gave up the torpid sense and listless hours; Now joyful saw the naked sword display'd,

Though brother's blood flow'd reeking from the blade. By tyrants sunk she rose more proudly great,

As ocean swells indignant in the strait;

And, borne in chains † from Cambria's mountains bleak,

Rais'd virtue's generous blush on Cæsar's cheek.
But ah! full many a dark and stormy year
She dropt o'er Albion's isle the patriot tear.
Retir'd to mountains from the craggy dell
She caught the Norman curfeu's tyrant knell :
Sad to her view the Baron's castle frown'd
Bold from the steep, and aw'd the plains around:
She sorrowing heard the papal thunders roll,
And mourn'd the ignoble bondage of the soul;

* Vide Chatterton's Ode to Freedom.

+ Vide Tacitus's account of Caractacus at the throne of Claudius.

She blush'd, O Cromwell, blush'd at Charles's doom;
And wept, misguided Sidney, o'er thy tomb.
But now reviv'd she boasts a purer cause,
Refin'd by science, form'd by generous laws:
High hangs her helmet in the banner'd hall,
Nor sounds her clarion but at honor's call.
Now walks the land with olive chaplets crown'd,
Exalting worth, and beaming safety round:
With secret joy and conscious pride admires
The patriot spirit, which herself inspires :
Sees barren wastes with unknown fruitage bloom;
Sees Labour bending patient o'er the loom ;
Sees Science rove through academic bowers;
And peopled cities lift their spiry towers:
Trade swells her sails, wherever ocean rolls,
Glows at the line, and freezes at the poles:
While through unwater'd plains and wondering meads
Waves not its own the obedient River leads.

But chief the god-like Mind, which bears impress'd Its Maker's glorious image full confest ;

Noblest of works created; more divine,

Than all the starry worlds, that nightly shine;
Form'd to live on, unconscious of decay,
When the wide universe shall melt away:
The Mind, which hid in savage breasts of yore,
Lay, like Golconda's gems, an useless ore;
Now greatly dares sublimest aims to scan;
Enriches science, and ennobles man;

Unveils the semblance, which it's God bestow'd;

And draws more near the fount, from whence it flow'd.

ANACREONTIC SONG,

BY CAPTAIN MORRICE,

For which he received the Prize of the Gold Cup from the Harmonic Society.

COME, thou soul-reviving CUP,
And try thy healing art;
Light the Fancy's visions up-
And warm my wasted heart!
Touch with glowing tints of bliss
Mem'ry's fading dream;

Give me, while thy lip I kiss,

The heav'n that's in thy stream!

In thy fount the LYRIC MUSE
Ever dipp'd her wing,
ANACREON fed upon thy dews,

And HORACE drain'd thy spring!
I, too, humblest of the train,
There my spirit find,

Freshen there my languid brain-
And store my vacant mind!

When, blest CUP, thy fires divine
Pierce thro' TIME's dark reign,
All the joys that once were mine
I snatch from DEATH again;
And, tho' oft fond anguish rise
O'er my melting mind,

Hope still starts to Sorrow's eyes—
And drinks the tear behind!

Ne'er, sweet CUP, was vot'ry blest
More thro' life than me;
And that life, with grateful breast,
Thou seest I give to thee!
'Midst thy rose-wreath'd nymphs I pass
Mirth's sweet hours away;
Pleas'd, while TIME runs thro' the glass
To FANCY's brighter day!

Then, magic CUP, again for me
Thy pow'r creative try;
Again let hope-fed FANCY see
A Heav'n in BEAUTY'S eye !
O, lift my lighten'd heart away

On PLEASURE's downy wing,
And let me taste that bliss TO-DAY
TO-MORROW MAY NOT BRING!

1800.

THREE IDYLS,

WRITTEN AT ANCHOR-CHURCH, DERBYSHIRE *,

BY THE REV. W. B. STEVENS,

AUTHOR OF INDIAN ODES, RETIREMENT, AND OTHER POEMS.

IDYL I.

Go festal bark, and Pleasure spread the sails!
Indulgent Trent reflects a lover's smile,

And woos with whispering reed such gentle gales,
As speed thy course, nor vex his wave the while.
Go by the marge of his fair winding vales
To yon romantic cliff †, whose sainted pile
With all its waving oaks thy coming hails !
Exulting go-yet mindful that the fate

Of thousand hearts must on thy safety wait,
For never Cyprian bark could boast so fair a freight.

* In an excursion down the River Trent.

+ Anchor-Church, a curious hermitage, belonging to Sir Robert Burdett, at Foremark in Derbyshire. It is situated about half a mile north of the house, amidst a chain of rocks, that hang abruptly over extensive meadows, on the margin of the river.