All that your Sires possess'd, or you have sown,
Sacred from plunder- all is now your own."
And now her high commission from above,
Stamp'd with the holy characters of love,
The meek-ey'd spirit waving in her hand,
Breathes manumission o'er the rescued land;
She tears the banner stain'd with blood and tears,
And, Liberty! thy shining standard rears!
As the bright ensign's glory she displays,
See pale oppression faints beneath the blaze!
The giant dies! no more his frown appals,
The chain, untouch'd, drops off; the fetter falls.
Astonish'd echo tells the vocal shore,
Oppression's fall'n, and Slavery is no more
The dusky myriads crowd the sultry plain,
And hail that Mercy long invok'd in vain.
Victorious Pow'r! she burst their two-fold bands,
And Faith and Freedom spring from Britain's
And THоU! great source of Nature and of Grace, Who of one blood didst form the human race; Look down in mercy in thy chosen time, With equal eye on Afric's suff`ring clime: Disperse her shades of intellectual night, Repeat thy high behest-Let there be light. Bring each benighted soul, great God, to Thee, And with thy wide Salvation make them free!
SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER: A LEGENDARY TALE:
O nostra Vita, ch'e si bella in vista !
Com' perde agevolmente in un momento,
quel, ch'en molt' anni a grand pena s'acquista:
PETRARCA.
THERE was a young and valiant Knight,
Sir Eldred was his name;
And never did a worthier wight
The rank of knighthood claim.
Where gliding Tay, her stream sends forth,
To feed the neighbouring wood,
The ancient glory of the North,
Sir Eldred's castle stood.
The Knight was rich as Knight might be
In patrimonial wealth;
And rich in nature's gifts was he,
In youth, and strength, and health.
He did not think, as some have thought,
Whom honour never crown'd,
The fame a father dearly bought,
Could make the son renown'd.
He better thought, a noble sire,
Who gallant deeds had done,
To deeds of hardihood should fire
A brave and gallant son.
The fairest ancestry on earth
Without desert is poor;
And every deed of former worth
Is but a claim for more.
Sir Eldred's heart was ever kind,
Alive to Pity's call;
A crowd of virtues grac'd his mind,
He loved, and felt for all.
When merit rais'd the sufferer's name,
He shower'd his bounty then;
And those who could not prove that claim,
He succour'd still as men.
But sacred truth the Muse compels
His errors to impart ;
And yet the Muse reluctant tells
The fault of Eldred's heart.
Tho mild and soft as infant love
His fond affections melt;
Tho' all that kindest spirits prove
Sir Eldred keenly felt:
Yet if the passions storm'd his soul,
By jealousy led on;
The fierce resentment scorn'd control,
And bore his virtues down.
Not Thule's waves so wildly break
To drown the northern shore;
Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake,
Or Scythia's tempests roar.
As when in summer's sweetest day
To fan the fragrant morn,
The sighing breezes softly stray
O'er fields of ripen'd corn;
Sudden the lightning's blast descends,
Deforms the ravag'd fields;
At once the various ruin blends,
And all resistless yields.
But when, to clear his stormy breast,
The sun of reason shone,
And ebbing passions sunk to rest,
And show'd what rage had done :
O then what anguish he betray'd!
His shame how deep, how true!
He view'd the waste his rage had made,
And shudder'd at the view.
The meek-ey'd dawn, in saffron robe,
Proclaim'd the opening day,
Up rose the sun to gild the globe,
And hail the new-born May;
The birds their vernal notes repeat,
And glad the thickening grove,
And feather'd partners fondly greet
With many a song of love:
When pious Eldred early rose
The Lord of all to hail;
Who life with all its gifts bestows,
Whose mercies never fail!
That done--he left his woodland glade,
And journey'd far away;
He lov'd to court the distant shade,
And thro' the lone vale stray.
Within the bosom of a wood,
By circling hills embrac'd,
A little, modest mansion stood,
Built by the hand of taste:
While many a prouder castle fell,
This safely did endure;
The house where guardian virtues dwell
Is sacred and secure.
Of Eglantine an humble fence
Around the mansion stood,
Which serv'd at once to charm the sense
And screen an infant wood.
The wood receiv'd an added grace,
As pleas'd it bent to look,
And view'd its ever verdant face
Reflected in a brook:
The smallness of the stream did well
The master's fortunes show;
But little streams may serve to tell
The source from which they flow.
This mansion own'd an aged Knight,
And such a man was he,
As heaven just shows to human sight,
To tell what man should be.
His youth in many a well-fought field
Was train'd betimes to war;
His bosom, like a well-worn shield,
Was grac'd with many a scar.
The vigour of a green old age
His reverend form did bear;
And yet, alas! the warrior-sage
Had drain'd the dregs of care.
And sorrow more than age can break,
And wound its hapless prey,
'Twas sorrow furrow'd his firm cheek,
And turn'd his bright locks grey.
One darling daughter sooth'd his cares,
A young and beauteous dame,
Sole comfort of his failing years,
And Birtha was her name.
Her heart a little sacred shrine,
Where all the Virtues meet,
And holy Hope and Faith divine
Had claim'd it for their seat.
She lov'd to raise her fragrant bower
Of wild and rustic taste,
And there the screen'd each fav'rite flower
From ev'ry ruder blast:
And not a shrub or plant was there
But did some moral yield,
For wisdom, by a father's care,
Was found in ev'ry field.
The trees, whose foliage fell away,
And with the summer died,
He thought an image of decay
Might lecture human pride:
While fair perennial greens that stood,
And brav'd the wintry blast,
As types of the fair mind he view'd,
Which shall for ever last.
He taught her that the gaudiest flowers
Were seldom fragrant found,
But, wasted soon their little powers,
Dropt useless on the ground:
While the sweet-scented rose shall last,
And still retain its power
When life's imperfect day is past,
And beauty's shorter hour.
And here the virgin lov'd to lead
Her inoffensive day,
And here she oft retir'd to read,
And oft retir'd to pray.
Embower'd, she grac'd the woodland shades,
From courts and cities far,
The pride of Caledonian maids,
The peerless northern star.
As shines that bright and lucid star,
The glory of the night,
When beaming thro' the cloudless air,
She sheds her silver light:
So Birtha shone!-But when she spoke
The Muse herself was heard,
As on the ravish'd air she broke,
And thus her prayer preferr'd:
"O bless thy Birtha, Power Supreme,
In whom I live and move,
And bless me most by blessing him
Whom more than life I love."
She starts to hear a stranger's voice,
And with a modest grace,
She lifts her meek eye in surprise,
And sees a stranger's face:
The stranger lost in transport stood,
Bereft of voice and power,
While she with equal wonder view'd
Sir Eldred of the bower.
The virgin blush which spreads her cheek
With nature's purest dye,
And all those dazzling beams which break
Like morning from her eye.
He view'd them all, and as he view'd,
Drank deeply of delight;
And still his raptur'd eye pursued,
And feasted on the sight.
With silent wonder long they gaz'd,
And neither silence broke;
At length the smother'd passion blaz'd,
Enamour'd Eldred spoke :
"O sacred Virtue, heav'nly power!
Thy wondrous force I feel:
I gaze, I tremble, I adore,
Yet die my love to tell.
"My scorn has oft the dart repell'd
Which guileful beauty threw;
But goodness heard, and grace beheld,
Must every heart subdue."
Quick on the ground her eyes were cast,
And now as quickly rais'd:-
Just then her father haply past,
On whom she trembling gaz'd.
Good Ardolph's eye his Birtha meets
With glances of delight;
And thus with courteous speech he greets
The young and graceful Knight:
"O gallant youth, whoe'er thou art,
Right welcome to this place!
There's something rises at my heart
Which says I've seen that face."
"Thou generous Knight," the youth rejoin'd, "Though little known to fame,
I trust I bear a grateful mind-
Sir Eldred is my name."
"Sir Eldred ?"-Ardolph loud exclaim'd,
"Renown'd for worth and power?
For valour and for virtue famed,
Sir Eldred of the Bower?
"Now make me grateful, righteous Heaven,
As thou art good to me,
Since to my aged eyes 'tis given
Sir Eldred's son to see!"
Then Ardolph caught him by the hand,
And gazed npon his face,
And to his aged bosom strain'd,
With many a kind embrace.
Again he view'd him o'er and o'er,
And doubted still the truth,
And ask'd what he had ask'd before,
Then thus addrest the youth:
"Come now beneath my roof, I pray,
Some needful rest to take,
And with us many a cheerful day
Thy friendly sojourn make."
He enter'd at the gate straightway
Some needful rest to take;
And with them many a cheerful day
Did friendly sojourn make.
in a social summer's walk,
The gaudy day was fled;
They cheated time with cheerful ta
When thus Sir Ardolph said:
"Thy father was the firmest friend
That e'er my being blest;
And every virtue Heaven could send,
Fast bound him to my breast.
"Together did we learn to bear
The casque and ample shield;
Together learn'd in many a war
The deathful spear to wield.
"To make our union still more dear,
We both were doom'd to prove,
What is most sweet and most severe
In heart-dissolving love.
"The daughter of a neighbouring Knight Did my fond heart engage;
And ne'er did Heaven the virtues write
Upon a fairer page.
"His bosom felt an equal wound,
Nor sigh'd we long in vain;
One summer's sun beheld us bound
In Hymen's holy chain.
"Thou wast Sir Eldred's only child,
Thy father's darling joy;
On me a lovely daughter smiled,
On me a blooming boy.
"But man has woes, has clouds of care,
That dim his star of life-
My arms received the little pair,
The earth's cold breast my wife.
"Forgive, thou gentle Knight, forgive, Fond foolish tears will flow;
One day like mine thy heart may heave, And mourn its lot of wo.
"But grant, kind Heaven! thou ne'er may'st
The pangs I now impart;
Nor ever feel the parting blow
That rives a husband's heart.
"Beside the blooming banks of Tay, My angel's ashes sleep;
And wherefore should her Ardolph stay Except to watch and weep?
"I bore my beauteous babes away
With many a gushing tear;
I left the blooming banks of Tay,
And brought my darlings here.
"I watch'd my little household cares
And form'd their growing youth,
And fondly train'd their infant years
To piety and truth."
"Thy blooming Birtha here I see,"
Sir Eldred straight rejoin'd;
"But why the son is not with thee,
Resolve my doubting mind."
When Birtha did the question hear,
She sigh'd, but could not speak;'
And many a soft and tender tear
Stray'd down her damask cheek.
Then pass'd o'er good Sir Ardolph's face
A cast of deadly pale;
But soon composed, with manly grace, He thus renew'd his tale:
"For him my heart too much has bled; For him, my darling son,
Has sorrow prest my hoary head,
But Heaven's high will be done!
"Scarce eighteen winters had revolved,
To crown the cirling year,
Before my valiant boy resolved
The warrior's lance to bear.
"For high I prized my native land,
Too dear his fame I held,
T'oppose a parent's stern command,
And keep him from the field.
"He left me-left his sister too,
Yet tears bedew'd his face-
What could a feeble old man do?
He burst from my embrace.
"O thirst of glory, fatal flame!
O laurels dearly bought!
Yet sweet is death when earn'd with fameSo virtuous Edwy thought.
"Full manfully the brave boy strove,
Though pressing ranks oppose;
But weak the strongest arm must prove
Against an host of foes.
"A deadly wound my son receives,
A spear assails his side:
Grief does not kill-for Ardolph lives
To tell that Edwy died.
"His long-loved mother died again
In Edwy's parting groan;
I wept for her, yet wept in vain-
I wept for both in one.
"I would have died-I sought to die,
But Heaven restrain'd the thought,
And to my passion-clouded eye
My helpless Birtha brought.
"When lo! array'd in robes of light, A nymph celestial came,
She clear'd the mists that dimm'd my sightReligion was her name.
"She proved the chastisement divine,
And bade me kiss the rod :
She taught this rebel heart of mine
Submission to its God.
Religion taught me to sustain
What Nature bade me feel;
And Piety relieved the pain
Which Time can never heal."
He ceased-with sorrow and delight
The tale Sir Eldred hears;
Then weeping cries-" Thou noble Knight, For thanks accept my tears.
"O Ardolph, might I dare aspire
To claim so bright a boon!
Good old Sir Eldred was my sire-
And thou hast lost a son.
"And though I want a worthier plea
To urge so dear a cause;
Yet let me to thy bosom be
What once thy Edwy was.
"My trembling tongue its aid denies;
For thou may'st disapprove;
Then read it in my ardent eyes,
Oh! read the tale of love.
"Thy beauteous Birtha !"-" Gracious Power How could I e'er repine,
Cries Ardolph, "since I see this hour?
Yes-Birtha shall be thine.'
A little transient gleam of red
Shot faintly o'er her face,
And every trembling feature spread
With sweet disorder'd grace.
The tender father kindly smiled
With fulness of content:
And fondly eyed his darling child,
Who, bashful, blush'd consent.
O then to paint the vast delight
That fill'd Sir Eldred's heart,
To tell the transports of the Knight,
Would mock the Muse's art.
But every kind and gracious soul,
Where gentle passions dwell,
Will better far conceive the whole,
Than any Muse can tell.
The more the Knight his Birtha knew,
The more he prized the maid;
Some worth each day produced to view,
Some grace each hour betray d.
The virgin too was fond to charm
The dear accomplish'd youth;
His single breast she strove to warm,
And crown'd, with love, his truth.
Unlike the dames of modern days,
Who general homage claim;
Who court the universal gaze,
And pant for public fame.
Then beauty but on merit smiled,
Nor were her chaste smiles sold;
No venal father gave his child
For grandeur, or for gold.
The ardour of young Eldred's flame
But ill could brook delay,
And oft he press'd the maid to name
A speedy nuptial day.
The fond impatience of his breast
'Twas all in vain to hide, But she his eager suit represt With modest maiden pride.
When oft Sir Eldred press'd the day
Which was to crown his truth,
The thoughtful Sire would sigh and say,
"O happy state of youth!
"It little recks the woes which wait
To scare its dreams of joy;
Nor thinks to-morrow's alter'd fate
May all those dreams destroy.
"And though the flatterer Hope deceives,
And painted prospects shows;
Yet man, still cheated, still believes,
Till death the bright scene close.
"So look'd my bride, so sweetly mild, On me her beauty's slave;
But whilst she look'd, and whilst she smiled,
She sunk into the grave.
"Yet, O forgive an old man's care
Forgive a father's zeal :
Who fondly loves, must greatly fear;
Who fears, must greatly feel.
"Once more in soft and sacred bands
Shall Love and Hymen meet;
To-morrow shall unite your hands,
And-be your bliss complete!"
The rising sun inflamed the sky,
The golden orient blush'd;
But Birtha's cheeks a sweeter die,
A brighter crimson flush'd.
The Priest, in milk-white vestments clad,
Perform'd the mystic rite;
Love lit the hallow'd torch that led
To Hymen's chaste delight.
How feeble language were to speak
Th' immeasurable joy,
That fired Sir Eldred's ardent cheek,
And triumph'd in his eye!
Sir Ardolph's pleasure stood confest,
A pleasure all his own;
The guarded pleasure of a breast
Which many a grief had known.
'Twas such a sober sense of joy
As Angels well might keep;
A joy chastised by piety,
A joy prepared to weep.
To recollect her scatter'd thought,
And shun the noon-tide hour,
The lovely bride in secret sought
The coolness of her Bower.
Long she remain'd-th' enamour'd Knight, Impatient at her stay;
And all unfit to taste delight
When Birtha was away;
Betakes him to the secret bower;
His footsteps softly move; Impell'd by every tender power, He steals upon his love.
O, horror! horror! blasting sight!
He sees his Birtha's charms,
Reclined with melting fond delight,
Within a stranger's arms.
Wild phrenzy fires his frantic hand;
Distracted at the sight,
He flies to where the lovers stand,
And stabs the stranger Knight.
"Die, traitor, die! thy guilty flames
Demand th' avenging steel!"-
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF A NYMPH
INTO STONE.
The annual wound allured
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate,
In amorous ditties all a summer's day;
While smooth Adonis from his native Rock
Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded.
WHERE beauteous Belmont rears her modest brow
To view Sabrina's silver waves below,
Lived young Ianthe, fair as beauty's Queen;
She reign'd unrivali'd in the sylvan scene;
Hers every charm of symmetry and grace,
Which aids the triumph of the fairest face;
With all that softer elegance of mind,
By genius heighten'd, and by taste refined.
Yet early was she doom'd the child of care,
For hapless love subdued th' ill-fated fair."
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the fairest face!
Or what each beauty of the heaven-born mind,
The soul superior, or the taste refined?
Beauty but serves destruction to ensure,
And sense, to feel the pang it cannot cure.
So cold the breast where Vanity presides,
And the whole subject soul absorbs and guides.
Too well he knew to make his conquest sure,
Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure,
So oft he told the well-imagin'd tale,
So oft he swore-how should he not prevail ?
The well-imagin'd tale the nymph believ'd;
Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd:
She loved the youth, she thought herself beloved,
Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approved.
The conquest once achiev'd, the brightest fair,
When conquer'd, was no longer worth his care:
When to the world her passion he could prove,
Vain of his pow'r, he jested at her love.
The perjured youth, from sad Ianthe far,
To win fresh triumphs, wages cruel war.
With other nymphs behold the wand'rer rove,
And tell the story of lanthe's love;
He mocks her easy faith, insults her woe,
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.
To sad Ianthe soon the tale was borne,
How Polydore to treach'ry added scorn.
And now her eyes' soft radiance 'gan to fail,
And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale;
The lily there, in faded beauty shows,
Its sickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose.
Devouring Sorrow marks her for his prey,
And, slow and certain, mines his silent way.
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declined,
Increasing strength sustain'd her firmer mind.
"O had my heart been hard as his," she cried,
"An hapless victim thus I had not died:
If there be gods, and gods there surely are,
Insulted virtue doubtless is their care.
Then hasten, righteous powers! my tedious fate,
Each neighbouring youth aspired to gain her Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date:
And many a suitor came from many a land:
But all in vain each neighbouring youth aspired,
And distant suitors all in vain admired.
Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend,
The lover she refused she made a friend:
Her meek rejection wore so mild a face,
More like acceptance seem'd it, than disgrace.
Young Polydore, the pride of rural swains,
Was wont to visit Belmont's blooming plains:
Who has not heard how Polydore could throw
Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe?
How leave the swiftest at the race behind,
How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind?
With melting sweetness, or with magic fire,
Breathe the soft lute, or sweep the well-strung lyre?
From that famed lyre no vulgar music sprung,
The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo strung.
Apollo too was once a shepherd swain,
And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain,
He taught what charms to rural life belong,
The social sweetness, and the sylvan song
He taught fair Wisdom in her grove to woo,
Her joys how precious, and her wants how few!
The savage herds in mute attention stood,
And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood;
The sacred Sisters, stooping from their sphere,
Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear:
Till Heaven the scene survey'd with jealous eyes,
And Jove, in envy, call'd him to the skies.
Young Polydore was rich in large domains,
In smiling pastures, and in flow'ry plains;
With these, he boasted each exterior charm,
To win the prudent, and the cold to warm;
The fairest semblance of desert he bore,
And each fictitious mark of goodness wore;
Could act the tenderness he never felt,
In sorrow soften, and in anguish melt.
The sigh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy dissembled, and the well-feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his each treach'rous art
That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.
Too soon he heard of fair Ianthe's fame,
'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav'rite theme;
Return'd the rising, and the setting sun,
The Shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done,
They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air!
And even inferior beauties own'd her fair.
Such sweet perfection all his wonder mov'd;
He saw, admired, nay, fancied that he loved:
But Polydore no gen'rous passion knew,
Lost to all truth in feigning to be true.
No lasting tenderness could warm a heart,
Too vain to feel, too selfish to impart.
Cold as the snows of Rhodop: descend,
And with the chilling waves of Hebrus blend
Quick let your power transform this failing frame,
Let me be any thing but what I am!
And since the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel,
Proceed, alas! frem having lov'd too well:
Grant me some form where love can have no part,
No human weakness reach my guarded heart;
Where no soft touch of passion can be felt,
No fond affection this weak bosom melt.
If pity has not left your blest abodes,
Change me to flinty adamant, ye gods!
To hardest rock, or monumental stone,
So may I know no more the pangs I've known;
So shall I thus no farther torment prove,
Nor taunting rivals say she died for love:
For sure, if ought can aggravate our woe,
'Tis the feign'd pity of a prosp'rous foe."
Thus pray'd the nymph-and straight the Pow'rs ad-
Accord the weeping suppliant's sad request.
Then, strange to tell! if rural folks say true,
To harden'd Rock the stiff''ning damsel grew;
No more her shapeless features can be known,
Stone is her body, and her limbs are stone;
The growing Rock invades her beauteous face,
And quickly petrifies each living grace:
The stone, her stature nor her shape retains,
The Nymph is vanish'd, but the rock remains.
No vestige now of human shape appears,
No cheek for blushes, and no eyes for tears:
Yet-strange the marvels Poets can impart !
Unchang'd, unchill'd, remain'd the glowing heart;
Its vital spirits destin'd still to keep,
It scorn'd to mingle with the marble heap.
When babbling Fame the wondrous tidings bore,
Grief seiz'd the soul of perjur'd Polydore;
And now the falsehood of his soul appears,
And now his broken vows assail his ears.
Appall'd, his smitten fancy seems to view
The nymph so lovely, and the friend so true.
For since her absence, all the virgin train,
His admiration sought to win in vain.
Tho' not to keep him even Ianthe knew,
From vanity alone his falsehood grew:
O let the youthful heart, thus warn'd, beware,
Of vanity, how deep, how wide the snare;
That half the mischiefs youth and beauty know,
From Vanity's exhaustless fountain flow.
Now deep remorse deprives his soul of rest,
And deep compunction wounds his guilty breast:
Then to the fatal spot in haste he flew,
Eager some vestige of the maid to view;
The shapeless Rock he mark'd, but found no trace
Of lost Ianthe's form, lanthe's face.
He fix'd his streaming eyes upon the stone, [groan;
"And take, sweet maid," he cried, "my parting
Since we are doom'd thus terribly to part,
No other nymph shall ever share my heart;
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