E'er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt, E'er vanity had led my way to guilt, But, soon arrived at my celestial goal, Full glories rush on my expanding soul."
Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round
Clapped their glad wings; the heavenly vaults resound.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE WILLIAM, EARL OF DARTMOUTH.
HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New England to adorn!
The northern clime beneath her genial ray, Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway: Elate with hope her race no longer mourns, Each soul expands, each grateful bosom burns, While in thine hand with pleasure we behold The silken reins, and Freedom's charms unfold. Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies She shines supreme, while hated Faction dies. Soon as appeared the Goddess long desired, Sick at the view, she languished and expired; Thus from the splendors of the morning light The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
No more, America, in mournful strain, Of wrongs, and grievance unredressed complain; No longer shall thou dread the iron chain, Which wanton Tyranny with lawless hand Had made, and with it meant to enslave the land.
Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, Whence flow these wishes for the common good, By feeling hearts alone best understood,
I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate
Was snatched from Afric's fancied happy seat: What pangs excruciating must molest,
What sorrows labor in my parents' breast! Steeled was that soul and by no misery moved That from a father seized his babe beloved: Such, such my case. And can I then but pray Others may never feel tyrannic sway?
Joseph Brown Ladd.
BORN in Newport, R. I., 1764. DIED at Charleston, S. C., 1786.
[The Poems of Arouet. 1786]
IS an empty, fleeting shade,
By imagination made:
'Tis a bubble, straw, or worse
"Tis a baby's hobby-horse:
'Tis two hundred shillings clear; "Tis ten thousand pounds a year:
'Tis a title, 'tis a name;
"Tis a puff of empty fame;
Fickle as the breezes blow;
'Tis a lady's yes or no!
And when the description's crowned, 'Tis just nowhere to be found. Arouet shows, I must confess, Says Delia, what is happiness; I wish he now would tell us what This self-same happiness is not.
What happiness is not? I vow, That, Delia, you have posed me now: What it is not-stay, let me see- I think, dear maid, 'tis-not for me.
INDEX OF AUTHORS, ETC., IN VOL. III
CREVECŒUR, J. HECTOR ST. JOHN DE. 138 NILES, NATHANIEL.
A General Index of Authors and Selections will be found in the Closing Volume.
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