Leav'st thou to foreign care the worthies, given
By Providence, to guide thy steps to Heav'n?,
His ministers, commissioned to proclaim
Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name!
Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed,
In Stygian night to lie for ever dead!!
So once the venerable Tishbite stray'd
An exil'd fugitive from shade to shade,
When, flying Ahab, and his fury wife,
In lone Arabian wilds, he shelter'd life;
So, from Philippi, wander'd forth forlorn
Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn;
And Christ himself, so left, and trod no more,
The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore.

But thou take courage! strive against despair!
Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care!
Grim war, indeed, on ev'ry side appears,
And thou art menac'd by a thousand spears;
Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend
Ev'n the defenceless bosom of my friend.
For thee the Ægis of thy God shall hide,
Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side.
The same, who vanquish'd under Sion's tow'rs,
At silent midnight, all Assyria's pow'rs,
The same who overthrew, in ages past,
Damascus' sons, that laid Samaria waste:
Their king he fill'd and them with fatal fears,
By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears.
Of hoofs, and wheels, and neighings from afar,
Of clashing armour, and the din of war.

Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may)
Still hope and triumph, o'er thy evil day!
Look forth, expecting happier times to come,
And to enjoy, once more, thy native home!

SONNE T.

[From the same.]

S on a hill-top rude, when closing day

A's maiden fair

Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, Borne from its native genial airs away, That scarcely can its tender bud display,

So, on my tongue these accents, new, and rare, Are flow'rs exotic, which Love waters there,

While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essay

Thy praise, in verse, to British ears unknown,
And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain;
So Love has will'd, and oft'times Love has shown,
That what he wills, he never wills in vain.
O that this hard and steril breast might be,

To Him, who plants from Heav'n, a soil as free!"

EULOGY ON THE NINE GLORIES OF ENGLAND.

N

[From Mr. SCOTT'S MARMION.]

OVEMBER's sky is chill and drear,
November's leaf is red and sear:
Late, gazing down the steepy linn
That hems our little garden in,
Low in its dark and narrow glen,
You scarce the rivulet might ken,
So thick the tangled green-wood grew,
So feeble trilled the streamlet through:
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen
Through bush and brier, no longer green,
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,
Brawls over rock and wild cascade,
And, foaming brown with doubled speed,
Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

No longer Autumn's glowing red
Upon our Forest hills is shed;
No more, beneath the evening beam,
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam;
Away hath passed the heather-bell,
That bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell;
Sallow his brow, and russet bare
Are now the sister-heights of Yare.
The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
To sheltered dale and down are driven,
Where yet some faded herbage pines,
And yet a watery sun-beam shines:
In meek despondency they eye
The wither'd sward and wintry sky,
And far beneath their summer hill,
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill:
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold,
And wraps him closer from the cold;
His dogs no merry circles wheel,
But, shivering, follow at his heel;
A cowering glance they often cast,
As deeper moans the gathering blast,

My

My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,
As best befits the mountain child,
Feel the sad influence of the hour,
And wail the daisy's vanished flower;
Their summer gambols tell and mourn,
And anxious ask,---Will spring return,
And birds and lambs again be gay,
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray
Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower
Again shall paint your summer bower.
Again the hawthorn shall supply
The garlands you delight to tie;
The lambs upon the lea shall bound,
The wild birds carol to the round,
And while you frolic light as they,
Too short shall seem the summer day.
To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory re-appears
But Oh! my country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate ?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike, and the wise;
The mind, that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand, that grasped the victor's steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows

Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly, may he shine,
Where Glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom,
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallow'd tomb!
Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons,---Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave';
To him, as to the burning levin,

Short, bright, resistless course was given;
Where'er his country's foes were found,
Was heard the fated thunder's sound,

Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,

Rolled, blazed, destroyed,---and was no more,
Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,

Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launched that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar ;
Who, born to guide such high emprize,
For Britain's weal was early wise;

Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave;
His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strained at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest gained,
The pride, he would not crush, restrained,
Shewed their fierce zeal a worthier cause,

And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.
Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,

A watchman on the lonely tower,

Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,

When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,

Our pilots had kept course aright;

As some proud column, though alone,

Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne,

Now is the stately column broke,

The beacon-light is quenched in smoke,

The trumpet's silver sound is still,

The warder silent on the hill!

Oh, think, how to his latest day,

When Death, just hovering, claimed his prey,
With Palinure's unaltered mood,

Firm at his dangerous post he stood;

Each call for needful rest repelled,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway,
The steerage of the realm gave way!
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains,
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still, upon the hallowed day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace his cold marble with a tear,—
He who preserved them, Pitt, lies here!
Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his Rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy requiescat dumb;
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employed, and wanted most;
Mourn, genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound,

And

And all the reasoning powers divine,
To penetrate, resolve, combine;
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow,-
They sleep with him who sleeps below:
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppressed,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke agen,

All peace on earth, good-will to men;
If ever from an English heart,
O here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record, that Fox a Briton died!
When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave
Was barter'd by a timorous slave,
Even then dishonour's peace he spurned,
The sullied olive-branch returned,
Stood for his country's glory fast,
And nailed her colours to the mast.
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honour'd grave;
And ne'er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.

With more than mortal powers endowed,

How high they soared above the crowd!
Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Looked up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were known
The names of Pitt and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave
E'et framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spent with these,
The wine of life is on the lees.

Genius, and taste, and talents gone,
For ever tombed beneath the stone,

Where,