« VorigeDoorgaan »
Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmov'd ;
Llewellyn's sorrow prov'd.
And here he hung his horn and spear ;
And oft, as ev'ning fell,
WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?
Thy neighbour ? it is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,
Thy soothing hand may press.
Whose eye with want is dim,
Go thou, and succour him.
Thy neighbour? — 'tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Go thou, and comfort him.
Thy neighbour ? —'tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem;
Go thou, and shelter them.
Thy neighbour ? — yonder toiling slave,
Fetter'd in thought and limb,
Go thou, and ransom him.
Where'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favour'd than thine own,
Thy brother or thy son.
Oh! pass not, pass not heedless by,
Perhaps thou canst redeem
Go, share thy lot with him.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled ;
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames rollid on he would not go,
Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud : Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done ? »
Unconscious of his son.
• A boy about thirteen years old, son to the captain of the Orient, remained at his post, in the battle of the Nile, after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned. He perished in the explosion of the vessel when the flames had reached the powder.
“ Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“ If I may yet be gone! And” — but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rollid on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in the waving hair,
In still yet brave despair.
“ My father! must I stay? ”
The wreathing fires made way.
They caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder-sound,
The boy,– oh! where was he ? Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strew'd the sea !
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,-
THE DYING INFANT TO ITS MOTHER.
CEASE here longer to detain me,
Fondest mother, drown'd in woe; Now thy fond caresses pain me,
Morn advances — let me go.
See yon orient streak appearing,
Harbinger of endless day-
Calls my new-born soul away.
Lately launch’d, a trembling stranger,
On the world's wild boisterous flood, Pierc'd with sorrows, toss'd with danger,
Gladly I return to God.
There, my mother, pleasures centre;
Weeping, parting, care, or woe, Ne'er our Father's house shall enter.
let me go
As through this calm, holy dawning,
Silent glides my parting breath, To an everlasting morning,
Gently close mine eyes in death. Blessings endless, richest blessings,
Pour their streams upon thy heart ! Though no language yet possessing
Breathes my spirit ere we part.
Yet, to leave thee sorrowing rends me,
Though again His voice I hear: Rise ! may every grace attend thee; Rise! and seek to meet me there.
LET India boast its spicy trees,
Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom
Its rich and rare perfume.
Display their orange-groves ;
Around her trim alcoves.
Old England has a tree as strong,
As stately as them all,
In cottage and in hall.
Its greenness to the grave;
Its branches o'er the wave.
Nor birch, although its slender tress
Be beautifully fair,
As maiden's flowing hair.
May from afar be seen;
With leaves of glossy green.
Their shade unsung by me;
The British Oak shall be!
Its giant branches throw