The exile's home, of all the lands the best;
Thy bulwarks, Justice; Liberty thy crest;
Thy 'scutcheon pure, bright Honour on thy shield;
Queen of the waves; victorious on the field!
Fairest of all, thy sons' exhaustless theme,
The despot's envy, and the poet's dream;
On burnish'd page emblazon'd is the name
Of glorious England on the scroll of fame.
A race heroic-champion thou of right,
With peerless lustre, gain'd in many a fight;
Thy gallant arms, e'er foremost in the fray,
The bay and laurel mark thy onward way.
Proudly thy pennons wave on ocean's strand,
The noble ensigns of a patriot land;
Thy Union Jack rides on the seething foam,
In faithful vigil over hearth and home.
Thy gleaming sabres, drawn in righteous cause,
Have taught stern lessons to thy haughty foes;
Thy eagle glance can make the tyrant quail,
And change to hope the slave's and captive's wail.
Duty thy watchword, great is thy renown;
Thy brow majestic wreath'd with victor's crown;
The foreign hordes mark well thy steady lance,
Nor dare one step upon thy shores advance.
Grim sentinels, thy frowning towers have stood,
Like sea-kings, lav'd by restless ocean's flood;
Bold in thy strength, thou canst defiance cast,
And check ambition with thy fiery blast!
O'er the whole world thy warrior sons prevail;
Thy fearless spirit breathes in every gale:
Britannia's flag, as aye in days of yore,
Scorns the proud foe that would invade her shore.
Land of sweet song, enrich'd by genius' fires,
That tells of triumphs won by ancient sires,
Thy glory burns refulgent in the West,
Proclaiming thee, of all, the brighest, best!
Lines on the Suicide by a Young Woman at Hardsoil Farm.
WHITHER away, lone wand'rer of the night?
What on thy soul hath cast its withering blight?
Would'st thou thus early consummate thy doom,
And brave the terrors of the hideous tomb?
Alas, for thee, thou stricken child of woe!
Despair hath dealt thy heart a cruel blow.
For thee no terrors hath the sombre night,
As on to death thou tak'st delirious flight.
Ah! who may tell the horrors of that night,
When reason fled, and heav'n was hid from sight!
When rayless gloom encompass'd thy poor soul,
And unto frenzy victim thou didst fall!
On, on, to death, thy throbbing heart thy knell !
Thy woe, too deep for tears, no tongue may tell.
No friendly hand is stretch'd forth thee to save!
Death is thy heav'n; thy solace is the grave.
Who shall essay thy depths of woe to pierce,
As swift through lonely meadow, sad, yet fierce,
With mien distraught, and fitful, short'ning breath
Thou hurriest on to leap the abyss of death?
The taunts of birth, the cruel gibes and sneers,
Thou didst but answer with thy welling tears;
Nor courage hadst thou to return the blows
Which robb'd thy bleeding heart of its repose.
Inspir'd with boldness far beyond thy years,
Thou putt'st to flight thy frailer sex's fears;
Nor carest thou for evening's solemn gloom:
The Mecca of thy hopes is in the tomb !
Now hast thou gained the very gate of death,
With wounded heart, with sighs, and quiv'ring breath!
A groan, despairing wail, a shriek of dread,
And thou hast cast thy lot among the dead!
Who on thy deed shall dare in judgment sit,
And back hypocrisy with Holy Writ?
Who shall presume 'twixt thee and Him to come ?-
Shall say thy portion is eternal gloom?
YE lofty hills, ye tow'ring mountains high,
Whose soaring heads seem lifted to the sky;
With wonder and with awe I view your forms,
Ye giant heroes of a thousand storms!
The majesty of silence reigns around;
All's wrapp'd in stillness deep and most profound;
Naught but the insect's fitful hum is heard,
Or the distant cry of some startled bird.
Could hills but speak-their history unfold-
What scenes they might reveal of times of old,—
Scenes that were noble, righteous, just, and good-
Scenes of wild violence and dark deeds of blood.
Here, in dark ages of religious strife,
The hunted Christian fled to save his life;
When darkest error fill'd the world with blood;
When martyrs, for the faith, the stake withstood.
Imagination's fired! Fancy's flights are free!
Thoughts fly far back deep into Time's great sea!
The present fades and disappears from sight;
Scenes, strange and varied, pass in rapid flight.
Anon the wind, with fitful, sullen roar,
Comes sweeping o'er the bleak and sterile moor;
The lurid lightning's meteoric flash
Is answer'd by the thunder's deafening crash.
Hark, how the war-note peals along the dell!
Dread harbinger of blood, and work most fell;
Its piercing pibroch sounds the awful knell
Of those who ne'er of victory shall tell.
See the huge ranks of mail'd and martial men,
Whose heavy tread awakes the slumbering glen ;
Who, e'er to-morrow's sun shall gild the clouds,
Will sleep the sleep of death in gory shrouds.
And now the foe with thund'ring tread advance—
A thousand arms reflect the sun's bright glance-
They meet!-sword crosses sword with angry clash-
Opposing forces meet with deadly crash!
The past is gone; my dreamy vision's o'er;
The moon shines on serenely as before;
A death-like stillness reigns o'er moss and fell,
O'er lofty mountain and secluded dell.
a A Sister's LovE.
THE love of a sister-how tender and pure,
When shadow'd by trial's dark cloud;
A love that can nobly all troubles endure,
When by His chast'ning hand we are bow'd.
When restlessly tossing in languishing pain,
And fever is scorching our brows,
She'll patiently tend us, nor ever complain
Of the trouble she on us bestows.
Then cherish thy sister, nor e'er in thy breast
Let a brother's affection grow cold;
And ne'er let her spirit by thee be distress'd,
Till He to His arms doth her fold.
When misfortune bears hard on our pathway through life,
Obscuring the bright star of hope;
When o'erwhelm'd in the vortex of hard-struggling strife,
And Despair her grim portals would ope;
When toss'd like a wreck on adversity's sea,
And help would ne'er seem to be near;-
'Tis then we arouse in her true sympathy,
And our hearts to her's we endear.
Then cherish, etc.
The love of a sister-'tis matchlessly pure,
As it flows from her warm, gushing heart;
What balm to the spirit, when comforts grow fewer,
And friends from our side do depart.
When th' world to our woes is indifferent and cold,
And to poverty turns a deaf ear—
'Tis the love of a sister, that ne'er waxes cold, That in the dark hour can cheer.
WHEN Adam first in Paradise was placed,
His eye the Almighty hand in all things traced ·
On every object saw his Maker's seal-
His soul a mystic awe began to feel.
He saw himself with God-like beauty graced,
As through the bow'rs of Paradise he paced;
He saw all nature vassal to his will-
A splendid triumph of his Maker's skill.
A little lower than the angels he—
Lord of creation—earth, and air, and sea;
All things combin'd to make his bliss complete;
With all essentials was the world replete.
How doubly happy he!—but no; for there,
Placed in the centre of this garden fair,
Did grow a tree, with luscious fruit weigh'd down—
The Tree of Knowledge, call'd by God His own.
As debauchee burns with unchaste desire;
As sparks, when fann'd, develop into fire;
So this new joy, array'd before his sight,
Doth wean his soul from the' Eternal Light.
O, cursed taste!-but see, with stealthy tread,
The Serpent's victim hide his guilty head;
Far in the forest's deep recess he hides—
And guilt triumphant o'er his conscience rides.
How odious to him was the beaming light—
Too well he knew the action was not right—
Gladly he welcomes the approach of night:
Conceal'd-vain thought-from the Almighty's sight.
Adam, where art thou?" was the awful cry That echoed loudly through the vaulted sky; Its piercing tones the spacious heavens fillEarth with the thund'ring cry is made to thrill.
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