COMI OSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSE IRE.
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown
With white-flower'd jasmine, and the broad-leaved myrtle,
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow-saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world so
hush'd!
Hark! the still murmur of the distant sea
Tells us of silence! And th' Eolian lute,
How by the desultory breeze caress'd,
Like some coy maid half-yielding to her lover,
It pours such sweet upbraidings, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong! and now its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
Such a soft floating witchery of sound-
Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world like this,
Where e'en the breezes of the simple air
Possess the power and spirit of melody!
And thus, my love! as on the midway slope
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,
Whilst thro' my half-closed eyelids I behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd,
And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
As wild and various as the random gales
That swell or flutter on this subject lute!
And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic harps diversely framed,
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps,
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the soul of each, and God of all?
But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
Darts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughts
Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek daughter in the family of Christ,
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised
These shapings of the unregenerate mind,
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of Him,
Th' Incomprehensible! save when with awe
I praise him, and with faith that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercies healed me,
A sinful and most miserable man,
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess,
Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honour'd maid:
A MOTHER'S GRATITUDE-RUSILLA.
GOOD Father, I have heard
From my old faithful servant and true friend,
Thou did'st reprove the inconsiderate tongue,
1 hat in the anguish of its spirit pour'd
A curse upon my poor unhappy child.
O, Father Maccabee, this is a hard world,
And hasty in its judgments! Time has been,
When not a tongue within the Pyrenees
Dared whisper in dispraise of Roderick's name,
Lest if the conscious air had caught the sound
The vengeance of the honest multitude
Should fall upon the traitorous head, or brand
For life-long infamy the lying lips.
Now if a voice be raised in his behalf,
'Tis noted for a wonder, and the man
Who utters the strange speech shall be admired
For such excess of Christian charity.
Thy Christian charity hath not been lost ;-
Father, I feel its virtue :-it hath been
Balm to my heart :-with words and grateful tears,
All that is left me now for gratitude,-
I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayers That thou wilt still remember Roderick's name. Q
BUILD UP A COLUMN TO BOLIVAR !
BUILD up a column to Bolivar!
Build it under a tropic star!
Build it high as his mounting fame!
Crown its head with his noble name!
Let the letters tell, like a light afar,
"This is the column of Bolivar!"
Soldier in war, in peace a man,
Did he not all that a hero can?
Wasting his life for his country's care,
Laying it down with a patriot prayer,
Shedding his blood like the summer rain,
Loving the land, though he loved in vain!
Man is a creature, good or ill.
Little or great, at his own strong will;
And he grew good, and wise, and great,
Albeit he fought with a tyrant fate,
And shower'd his golden gifts on men,
Who paid him in basest wrongs again!
Raise the column to Bolivar !
Firm in peace, and fierce in war!
Shout forth his noble, noble name!
Shout till his enemies die, in shame!
Shout till Columbia's woods awaken
Like seas by a mighty tempest shaken-
Till pity, and praise, and great disdain,
Sound like an Indian hurricane !
Shout, as ye shout in conquering war,
While ye build the column to Bolivar!
A MONARCH'S GRATITUDE.-SAR
STAY a moment, my good Salamenes,
My brother, my best subject, better prince
Than I am king. You should have been the
monarch,
And I-I know not what, and care not; but
Think not I am insensible to all
Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough, yet kind,
Though oft reproving, sufferance of my follies.
If I have spared these men against thy counsel,
That is, their lives-it is not that I doubt
The advice was sound; but let them live: we will
Cavil about their lives-so let them mend them. Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, Which their death had not left me.
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