What there has got possession. In some for truth mistook not art, From these, the pests of humankind, If such his trust and honours share, Each venom'd heart disclose; On Him, on Him our all depends, Oh, save him from his treacherous friends, He cannot fear his foes. Whoe'er shall at the helm preside, No selfish views to' oppress mankind, To hear no lawless passion's call, Such was thy glorious plan! Wisdom with generous love took part, Unite, ye kindred sons of worth; GARRICK. ON THE DEATH OF PRINCE LEOPOLD, SON OF THE DUKE OF MECKLENBURGH SCHWERIN, WHO WAS DROWNED IN THE RIVER ODER, DURING THE INUNDATION IN 1785, IN ENDEAVOURING TO RESCUE A FAMILY OF CHILDREN, WHOSE MOTHER HAD INTREATED HIM TO GIVE ORDERS FOR THAT PURPOSE. LET praise the victor's act record, With human sacrifice impure; To such, when Fate has given the blow, Shall long-prescriptive right secure : And every friend of man shall pay. Lamented youth! I never trod The banks where rapid Oder flow'd, Whose latest sons shall weep thy doom; Nor ever hail'd thy gracious form, Whose promised worth the' unkindly storm Hath crush'd in manhood's opening bloom. Yet, all confess'd to Fancy's eyes, With amaranthine splendour crown'd, Though now to better worlds resign'd, To save, to pity, and to spare.' WARWICK. ON SEEING A NEGRO FUNERAL. MAHALI dies! o'er yonder plain No tear bedews their fixed eye: Released from slavery's chain, Beyond the billowy surge he flies, And joyful views his native skies And long-lost bowers again. On Koromantyn's palmy soil, Shall fill each glorious day; Love, fond and faithful, crown thy nights, Nor lordly pride's stern avarice there For thee the dulcet reed shall spring, The thunder, hark! 'Tis Afric's God; Now, Christian, now, in wild dismay, But soft, beneath yon tamarind shade, Now let the hero's limbs be laid; Sweet slumbers bless the brave: There shall the breezes shed perfume, Nor livid lightnings blast the bloom That decks Mahali's grave. BRYAN EDWARDS. TO HOPE. THEY err who deem thee of celestial race, Thine is no angel face, O treacherous Hope, who flatterest to beguile. Thou wert, indeed, fair spirit, born in heaven; But from the realm of bliss Thy faithless form was driven With those who plunged into the deep abyss. And mortals own thy sway, Deem'd the good angel of the sons of earth. Thou, when the traveller of the moonless night That tempts the wretched wanderer far astray. And now he lifts his voice And louder now-and now the light is gone. Thou hearest him as to the water side And when beneath the tide, Groaning, he sinks, remembering all he loves. |