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Here never could the spearman pass,
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
And here he hung his horn and spear;
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?
THY neighbour? it is he whom thou
Thy neighbour?-'tis the fainting poor,
Thy neighbour?-'tis that weary man,
Thy neighbour? 'tis the heart bereft
Go thou, and shelter them.
Thy neighbour? — yonder toiling slave,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave—
Where'er thou meet'st a human form
Oh! pass not, pass not heedless by,
THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames roll'd on - he would not go,
He call'd aloud: "Say, father, say,
He knew not that the chieftain lay
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,
And" but the booming shots replied,
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in the waving hair,
And look'd from that lone post of death,
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
They wrapp'd the ship in splendour wild,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
There came a burst of thunder-sound,-
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
But the noblest thing which perish'd there,
THE DYING INFANT TO ITS MOTHER.
CEASE here longer to detain me,
Fondest mother, drown'd in woe;
Now thy fond caresses pain me,
See yon orient streak appearing,
Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering,
Lately launch'd, a trembling stranger,
There, my mother, pleasures centre;
Ne'er our Father's house shall enter.-
As through this calm, holy dawning,
Gently close mine eyes in death.
Blessings endless, richest blessings,
Yet, to leave thee sorrowing rends me,
LET India boast its spicy trees,
Old England has a tree as strong,
'Tis not the yew-tree, though it lends
Nor birch, although its slender tress
As graceful in its loveliness
As maiden's flowing hair.
"Tis not the poplar, though its height
Nor beech, although its boughs be dight
All these are fair, but they may fling
Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound,
Their arms in shady blessings round