« PreviousContinue »
Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during
his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez,
My right there is none to dispute ;
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.
11. I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
How soon would I taste you again !
In the ways of religion and truth,
Resides in that heavenly word !
Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a sabbath appear’d.
V. Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Of a land, I shall visit no more.
A wish or a thought after me?
Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
The beast is laid down in his lair;
And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
ON THE PROMOTION OF
EDWARD THURLOW, Esq.
THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF
And in his sportive days,
The experienced and the sage,
Proclaim him born to sway
He sprang impetuous forth
Ere yet he starts is known,
What all had deem'd his own.
ODE TO PEACE.
I. COME, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return, and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view; We therefore need not part.
And pleasure's fatal wiles?
And wilt thou quit the stream,
Whate'er I loved before;
Farewell! we meet no more?
The purpose of today,
Vice seems already slain ;
Finds out his weaker part;
But Pleasure wins his heart.
'Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,
To reach the distant coast;
Or all the toil is lost,