Abettors of massacre! dare ye deplore

That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore?
That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more
By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd?

And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by their gore
Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd?

Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind,
Than when Christendom's pennons wooed social the wind,
And the flower of her brave for the combat combined,
Their watch-word, humanity's vow:

Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind
Owes a garland to honour his brow!

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall
Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul:
For whose was the genius, that plann'd at its call,
Where the whirlwind of battle should roll?
All were brave! but the star of success over all
Was the light of our Codrington's soul.

That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek!
Dimm'd the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his cheek:
In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak
When their lore and their lutes they reclaim :
And the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak
Shall be "Glory to Codrington's name!"

LINES

ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER.

AND call they this Improvement ?—to have changed,
My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore,
Where Nature's face is banish'd and estranged,
And heaven reflected in thy wave no more;
Whose banks, that sweeten'd May-day's breath before,
Lie sere and leafless now in summer's beam,
With sooty exhalations cover'd o'er ;

And for the daisied green-sward, down thy stream
Unsightly brick lanes smoke, and clanking engines gleam.

Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains;
One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom
Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains.
But whither goes that wealth, and gladdening whom?
See, left but life enough and breathing-room

The hunger and the hope of life to feel,
Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom,

And Childhood's self as at Ixion's wheel,

From morn till midnight task'd to earn its little meal.

Is this Improvement ?-where the human breed
Degenerate as they swarm and overflow,
Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed,
And man competes with man, like foe with foe,
Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe?
Improvement!-smiles it in the poor man's eyes,
Or blooms it on the cheek of Labour ?-No-

To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize,
We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies.

Nor call that evil slight; God has not given
This passion to the heart of man in vain,

For Earth's green face, th' untainted air of Heaven,
And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign.

For not alone our frame imbibes a stain

From fœtid skies; the spirit's healthy pride

Fades in their gloom-And therefore I complain,

That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst glide,

My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde !

THE "NAME UNKNOWN;"

IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK.

PROPHETIC pencil! wilt thou trace
A faithful image of the face,

Or wilt thou write the "Name Unknown," Ordain'd to bless charmed soul,

my

And all my future fate control,

Unrivall'd and alone?

Delicious Idol of my thought!

Though sylph or spirit hath not taught
My boding heart thy precious name;

Yet musing on my distant fate,

To charms unseen I consecrate
A visionary flame.

Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye,

Thy virgin voice of melody,

Are ever present to my heart;

Thy murmur'd vows shall yet be mine,
My thrilling hand shall meet with thine,
And never, never part!

Then fly, my days, on rapid wing,
Till Love the viewless treasure bring:

While I, like conscious Athens, own
A power in mystic silence seal'd,
A guardian angel unreveal'd,

And bless the "Name Unknown!"

LINES

ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS.

In the deep blue of eve,

Ere the twinkling of stars had begun,
Or the lark took his leave

Of the skies and the sweet setting sun,

I climb'd to yon heights,

Where the Norman encamp'd him of old, With his bowmen and knights,

And his banner all burnish'd with gold.

At the Conqueror's side

There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand,

In pavilion wide;

And they chaunted the deeds of Roland.

Still the ramparted ground With a vision my fancy inspires, And I hear the trump sound,

As it marshall'd our Chivalry's sires.