"Oh, for the sake
Of that religion pure and undefiled,
Here purchased by thy Martyrs' precious blood,
Mercy, Oh mercy, Lord!
For that well-ordered frame of equal laws,
Time's goodliest monument,
O'er which thy guardian shield
So oft hath been extended heretofore,-
Mercy, Oh mercy, Lord!
For the dear charities,
The household virtues, that in secret there,
Like sweetest violets, send their fragrance forth,
Mercy, Oh mercy, Lord!
"Oh wilt thou quench the light,
That should illuminate
The Nations who in darkness sit,
And in the shadow of death?-
Oh wilt thou stop the heart
Of intellectual life?
Wilt thou seal the eye of the world?
Mercy, Oh mercy, Lord!
"Not for the guilty few,
Nor for the erring multitude,
The ignorant many, wickedly misled,—
Send thou thy vengeance down
Upon a land so long the dear abode
Of Freedom, Knowledge, Virtue, Faith, approv'd,
Thine own beloved land!-
Oh let not Hell prevail
Against her past deserts,-
Against her actual worth-
Against her living hopes,-
Against the prayers that rise
From righteous hearts this hour!
"Plead with me, O ye dead! whose sacred dust
Is laid in hope within her hallow'd soil,
Plead with me for your Country, suffering now
Beneath such loathsome plagues,
As ancient Egypt in her slime
And hot corruption bred.
Plead with me at this hour
All wise and upright minds,
All honourable hearts,-
For ye abhor the sins
Which, o'er the guilty land,
Have drawn this gathered storm!
Plead with me souls unborn,
Ye who are doomed upon this fateful spot
To pass your pilgrimage;
Earth's noblest heritors,
Or children of a ruined realm, to shame
And degradation born,-
(For this is on the issue of the hour!)
Plead with me, unborn Spirits! that the wrath
Deserved, may pass away!
"Join in my supplication Seas and Lands,
I call upon ye all!
Thou, Europe, in whose cause,
Alone and undismay'd,
The generous nation strove.
For whose deliverance in the Spanish fields
Her noblest blood was pour'd
Profusely; and on that Brabantine plain,
(The proudest fight that e'er
By virtuous victory
Was hallowed to all time!)
Join with me Africa!
For here hath thy redemption had its birth !—
Thou, India, who art blest
With peace and equity
Beneath her easy sway
And thou, America, who owest
The large and inextinguishable debt
Of filial love!—And ye
Remote Antarctic Isles and Continent,
Where the glad tidings of the Gospel truth,
Her children are proclaiming faithfully,
Join with me now to wrest
The thunderbolt from that relenting arm !—
Plead with me Earth and Ocean at this hour,
Thou, Ocean, for thy Queen,
And for thy benefactress, thou, O Earth.”
The Angel ceased;
The vision fled;
The wind arose,
The clouds were rent,
They were drifted and scattered abroad,
And as I looked, and saw
Where thro' the clear blue sky the silver Moon
Moved in her light serene,
A healing influence reach'd my heart,
And I felt in my soul
That the voice of the Angel was heard.
WHO has not wept o'er SIDNEY's early grave-
The wise, the good, the courteous, and the brave?
Who has not felt elate with patriot pride
To tell how England's Christian hero died?
On Zutphen's field of doubtful strife he lay,
While pale and faint his life-blood ebb'd away—
See, to his famish'd lips he bears the cup,
The far sought draught which nature bids him drain
Why stops the warrior-why thus lifts he up
His head to look upon another's pain?
Behold," he cried, "that soldier's anxious eye,
He asks this drop in his last
agony;
The cheering draught I willingly resign,
This man's necessity is more than mine."
Who has not kindled up at NELSON's fame,
And felt the tear flow at Trafalgar's name?
Who has not own'd, that in his patriot part
He wore the bravest and the kindest heart?
In Nile's great triumph when the hero fell,
Amidst the fears of those who lov'd him well,
Why asks he not the prompt obedient skill-
Why sits he on the dark and reeking ground
To struggle with his pain, and task his will
Yet to endure his gushing, unstanch'd wound?
"Leave not," he said, "the bleeding seaman's side,
A streaming cockpit is no place for pride-
Alike with hopes of victory we burn-
With my brave fellows will I take my turn.”
ENGLAND! 'twas not for me to view that hour
When first the clouds of anarchy * had shed
Their baleful lightnings near thy lofty head,
Sweeping before thee like a comet's power;
Yet I have seen the thick'ning war-storm lour,
When the great Idol + fill'd the earth with dread;
But, girding on thy strength, the phantom fled,
And thou stoodst hurtless, like a time-crown'd tower;
O! thou canst battle with the jarring shock
Of maddening foes:-but if the soul of Truth,
Freedom, and Piety, which rear'd thy youth,
And inward Peace should flee-gone is thy rock.
Dear Land! call up the soul of the old time,
To chase Disorder from thy glorious clime.
THE SEA-FIGHT OF THE SHANNON AND
CHESAPEAKE, JUNE 1, 1813.
[The following little Poem records one of the most gallant actions of the late war between Great Britain and America. Compositions such as these are not meant to encourage a spirit of National Rivalry, when the causes of dissension are happily subsided, but to preserve such a remembrance of heroic events as should keep alive that universal patriotism which is the best shield against a future danger, however distant be the period of its recurrence.]
SOFT blew the gale, and fair the day
Rose on the broad Atlantic tide;
And not a cloud obscured the ray
That gilded all that ocean wide;
And haply not an angry spray
Broke on the ship's majestic side,
That glided through that tranquil deep,
Her silent, cautious watch to keep.
And lonely there she wore till noon,
When, as she near'd the Western land,
Her Captain ask'd of Heav'n a boon,
As calm he look'd on Boston's strand,
That from her port, advancing soon,
Yon trim-built frigate's haughty band
Might tempt the vengeance of the fight,
Whilst linger'd yet that day's good light.
For 'twas a day of British fame,
A day which taught the seaman still
To think of Howe's triumphant name,
And glow with all a patriot's thrill;
And not a man that day, for shame,
Would bend his fearless, haughty will,
To crouch whilst any Western foe
Should dash the British pennon low.
Forth from the port, in gallant trim,
The fearless chieftain gaily sweeps,
And swears no British sail shall swim
So proud in Massachuset's deeps;
|