Whether morning's splendours steep thee
With the rainbow's glowing grace,
Tempests rouse or navies sweep thee,
"Tis but for a moment's space.

Earth, her vallies, and her mountains,
Mortal man's behests obey;
Thy unfathomable fountains
Scoff his search, and scorn his sway.
Such art thou-stupendous ocean!
But, if overwhelm'd by thee,
Can we think, without émotion,
What must thy Creator be?

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour,
For I must crush among the stoure

Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonny gem

Alas! 'tis not thy neighbour sweet,
The bonny lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mong the dewy wheat


With speckl'd breast, When upward springing, blithe to meet

The purpling east.

Cold blew the bitter biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth,

Yet cheerfully thou beamedst forth

Amid the storm;

Scarce rear'd above thy parent earth

Thy tender form.


The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and walls must shield,
But thou beneath the random bield *

Of clod or stone

Adorn'st the barren stubble field,

Unseen, alone.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snowy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lift'st thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou liest.


"AH! tell me, little mournful Moor,
Why still you linger on the shore?
Haste to your playmates, haste away,
Nor loiter here with fond delay:
When morning dawn'd along the sky,
You hail'd me as I wander'd by:-
Returning at the approach of eve,
Your meek salute I still receive."

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Benign enquirer, thou shalt know Why here my lonely moments flow; "Tis said, the numerous captive train, Late bound by the degrading chain, Return, their griefs and sorrows o'er, To repossess their native shore.

"The gales that o'er the ocean stray, And chase the waves in gentle play,

* Shelter.


Methinks they whisper as they fly,
'Juellen soon will meet thy eye.'
'Tis this that soothes her little son,
Blends all his wishes into one.

"Oh! were I clasp'd in her embrace,
I would forgive her past disgrace,
Forgive the melancholy hour

She fell a prey to tyrant power,
Forget her lost distracted air,

Her sorrowing voice, her kneeling prayer,
The bitter tears that wet her cheek,
And her last agonizing shriek.

"Lock'd in her hair, a cruel hand
Dragg'd her along the flinty strand :
Still as she went, with accents wild,
She shriek'd aloud, 'My child, my child!'
The lofty bark she now ascends,

With screams of woe the air she rends;
The vessel lessening from the shore,
Her piteous plaints I heard no more.
Now, as I strain my last survey,
Her distant form dissolv'd away.

"That day is past—I cease to mourn-
Succeeding joy shall have its turn;
Beside the hoarse resounding deep,
A pleasing, anxious watch I keep;
For when the morning clouds shall break,
And beams of day the darkness streak,
Perhaps along the glitt'ring main,
(O, may this hope not throb in vain!)
To meet these long desiring eyes,
Juellen and the sun may rise.





"Now by my life, a glorious day!
It warms my English blood!
Exclaiming, Death or victory!'
The gallant warrior stood.
The coward multitudes before
His desperate valour fled;
And death and conquest once again
Pursued where Edward led.

"But where were Edward's feeling's then,
When on the field he stood,
His blunted sword and sable arms
Purpled with Gallic blood;
When, all disabl'd and forlorn,
He saw the foeman fly?

I could for such a moment's joy

Be well content to die."

And would'st thou have the warrior's fame?

Nay, Henry! say not so;

For God forbid that ever thou

Such glorious guilt should know!

Come with me in thy spirit, boy,

And view the field of fight:

There, Henry! shall thy young heart learn
To form its wishes right.

Secure the conqueror in his tent
In quiet slumber lies;

The toils and honours of the day
In dreams again arise.


But, Henry! didst thou hear without
That faint and feeble cry;

Vain effort of some wounded wretch,
Left there alone to die.

Hark, Henry the night-raven screams,
Exulting o'er his food;

He now upon his mangl'd prey

Stands idle, gorged with blood!

Dear boy! what though the conq'ror's name
Were spread from pole to pole,
Would'st thou for this world's glory have
This blood upon thy soul?

Look, Henry! what is yonder form
Slow moving o'er the plain?
It is the widow'd wife, that comes
To search the field of slain.

Long shall the widow live to mourn,

And long her tears shall roll—

And would'st thou have, at thy death-hour,
Those tears upon thy soul?




Is it not sweet, beloved youth!
To rove through erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
And gather fancy's brilliant flowers?

And is it not more sweet than this,
To feel thy parents' hearts approving,
And pay them back, in sums of bliss,
The dear, the endless debt of loving.

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