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Soon fleets the sunbright form by man adored,
And soon man's demon chiefs from memory fade.
In musty volume now must be explored,
Where dwelt imperial nations, long decay'd.
The brightest meteors angry clouds invade;
And where the wonders glitter'd, none explain.
Where Carthage, with proud hand, the trident
sway'd,

Now mud-wall'd cots sit sullen on the plain, And wandering, fierce, and wild, sequester'd Arabs reign.

In thee, O Albion! queen of nations, live Whatever splendours earth's wide realms have known;

In thee proud Persia sees her pomp revive, And Greece her arts, and Rome her lordly throne: By every wind thy Tyrian fleets are blown; Supreme, on Fame's dread roll, thy heroes stand; All ocean's realms thy naval sceptre own; Of bards, of sages, how august thy band! And one rich Eden blooms around thy garden'd land.

But, O how vast thy crimes! Though Heaven's great year,

When few centurial suns have traced their way;
When Southern Europe, worn by feuds severe,
Weak, doting, fallen, has bow'd to Russian sway,
And setting Glory beam'd her farewell ray,
To wastes, perchance, thy brilliant fields shall

turn;

In dust thy temples, towers, and towns decay; The forest howl, where London's turrets burn, And all thy garlands deck thy sad, funereal urn. Some land, scarce glimmering in the light of fame, Scepter'd with arts and arms, (if I divine,) Some unknown wild, some shore without a name, In all thy pomp shall then majestic shine. As silver-headed Time's slow years decline, Not ruins only meet the inquiring eye:

Where round yon mouldering oak vain brambles twine,

The filial stem, already towering high,

Ere long shall stretch his arms, and nod in yonder sky.

Where late resounded the wild woodland roar, Now heaves the palace, now the temple smiles; Where frown'd the rude rock and the desert shore, Now pleasure sports, and business want beguiles, And Commerce wings her flight to thousand

isles;

Culture walks forth; gay laugh the loaded fields; And jocund Labour plays his harmless wiles; Glad Science brightens; Art her mansion builds; And Peace uplifts her wand, and HEAVEN his blessing yields.

O'er these sweet fields, so lovely now and gay, Where modest Nature finds each want supplied, Where homeborn Happiness delights to play, And counts her little flock with household pride, Long frown'd, from age to age, a forest wide : Here hung the slumbering bat; the serpent dire Nested his brood, and drank the impoison'd tide;

Wolves peal'd the dark, drear night in hideous choir,

Nor shrunk the unmeasured howl from Sol's terrific fire.

No charming cot embank'd the pebbly stream; No mansion tower'd, nor garden teem'd with good;

No lawn expanded to the April beam, Nor mellow harvest hung its bending load; Nor science dawn'd, nor life with beauty glow'd, Nor temple whiten'd in the enchanting dell; In clusters wild the sluggish wigwam stood; And, borne in snaky paths, the Indian fell Now aim'd the death unseen, now screamed the tiger yell.

Even now, perhaps, on human dust I tread, Pondering with solemn pause the wrecks of time; Here sleeps, perchance, among the vulgar dead, Some chief, the lofty theme of Indian rhyme, Who loved Ambition's cloudy steep to climb, And smiled, deaths, dangers, rivals to engage; Who roused his followers' souls to deeds sublime, Kindling to furnace heat vindictive rage,

And soar'd Cæsarean heights, the phoenix of his age.

In yon small field that dimly steals from sight, (From yon small field these meditations grow,) Turning the sluggish soil from morn to night, The plodding hind, laborious, drives his plough, Nor dreams a nation sleeps his foot below. There, undisturbed by the roaring wave, Released from war, and far from deadly foe, Lies down in endless rest a nation brave, And trains in tempests born there find a quiet grave.

Oft have I heard the tale, when matrons sere
Sung to my infant ear the song of wo;
Of maiden meek consumed with pining care,
Around whose tomb the wild rose loved to blow;
Or told, with swimming eyes, how, long ago,
Remorseless Indians, all in midnight dire,
The little sleeping village did o'erthrow,
Bidding the cruel flames to heaven aspire,
And scalp'd the hoary head, and burn'd the babe
with fire.

Then, fancy-fired, her memory wing'd its flight
To long-forgotten wars and dread alarms,
To chiefs obscure, but terrible in fight,
Who mock'd each foe, and laugh'd at deadliest
harms,

Sidneys in zeal, and Washingtons in arms.
By instinct tender to the woes of man,
My heart bewildering with sweet Pity's charms,
Through solemn scenes, with Nature's step she

ran,

And hush'd her audience small, and thus the tale began.

"Thro' verdant banks, where Thames's branches glide,

Long held the Pequods an extensive sway; Bold, savage, fierce, of arms the glorious pride, And bidding all the circling realms obey.

Jealous, they saw the tribes beyond the sea Plant in their climes; and towns and cities rise; Ascending castles foreign flags display ; Mysterious art new scenes of life devise;

And steeds insult the plains, and cannon rend the skies.

"They saw, and soon the strangers' fate decreed, And soon of war disclosed the crimson sign; First, hapless STONE! they bade thy bosom bleed, A guiltless offering at the infernal shrine: Then, gallant NORTON! the hard fate was thine, By ruffians butcher'd, and denied a grave: Thee, generous OLDHAM! next the doom malign Arrested; nor could all thy courage save; Forsaken, plunder'd, cleft, and buried in the

wave.

"Soon the sad tidings reach'd the general ear,
And prudence, pity, vengeance, all inspire:
Invasive war their gallant friends prepare;
And soon a noble band, with purpose dire,
And threatening arms, the murderous fiends re-

quire :

Small was the band, but never taught to yield; Breasts faced with steel, and souls instinct with

fire:

Such souls from Sparta Persia's world repell'd, When nations paved the ground, and XERXES flew the field.

"The rising clouds the savage chief descried, And round the forest bade his heroes arm; To arms the painted warriors proudly hied, And through surrounding nations rung the alarm. The nations heard; but smiled to see the storm, With ruin fraught, o'er Pequod mountains driven;

And felt infernal joy the bosom warm,

To see their light hang o'er the skirts of even, And other suns arise, to gild a kinder heaven.

"Swift to the Pequod fortress MASON sped, Far in the wildering wood's impervious gloom; A lonely castle, brown with twilight dread, Where oft the embowell'd captive met his doom, And frequent heaved around the hollow tomb; Scalps hung in rows, and whitening bones were strew'd;

Where, round the broiling babe, fresh from the womb,

With howls the Powaw fill'd the dark abode, And screams and midnight prayers invoked the evil god.

"There too, with awful rites, the hoary priest, Without, beside the moss-grown altar stood, His sable form in magic cincture dress'd, And heap'd the mingled offering to his god, What time, with golden light, calm evening glow'd.

The mystic dust, the flower of silver bloom, And spicy herb, his hand in order strew'd; Bright rose the curling flame; and rich perfume On smoky wings upflew, or settled round the

tomb.

"Then o'er the circus danced the maddening throng,

As erst the Thyas roam'd dread Nysa round, And struck to forest notes the ecstatic song, While slow beneath them heaved the wavy ground.

With a low, lingering groan of dying sound, The woodland rumbled; murmur'd deep each stream;

Shrill sung the leaves; all ether sigh'd profound; Pale tufts of purple topped the silver flame, And many-colour'd forms on evening breezes

came.

“Thin, twilight forms, attired in changing sheen Of plumes high-tinctured in the western ray; Bending, they peep'd the fleecy folds between, Their wings light-rustling in the breath of May. Soft-hovering round the fire in mystic play, They snuff'd the incense waved in clouds afar, Then, silent, floated towards the setting day : Eve redden'd each fine form, each misty car, And through them faintly gleam'd, at times, the

western star.

"Then (so tradition sings) the train behind,
In plumy zones of rainbow'd beauty dress'd,
Rode the Great Spirit in the obedient wind,
In yellow clouds slow-sailing from the west.
With dawning smiles the God his votaries blest,
And taught where deer retired to ivy dell;
What chosen chief with proud command to
invest;

Where crept the approaching foe, with purpose fell, And where to wind the scout, and war's dark storm dispel.

There, on her lover's tomb, in silence laid, While still and sorrowing shower'd the moon's pale beam,

At times expectant, slept the widow'd maid, Her soul far-wandering on the sylph-wing'd dream.

Wafted from evening skies on sunny stream, Her darling youth with silver pinions shone; With voice of music, tuned to sweetest theme, He told of shell-bright bowers beyond the sun, Where years of endless joy o'er Indian lovers run.

"But now nor awful rites nor potent spell
To silence charm'd the peals of coming war;
Or told the dread recesses of the dell,
Where glowing MASON led his bands from far:
No spirit, buoyant on his airy car,

Controll'd the whirlwind of invading fight:
Deep dyed in blood, dun evening's falling star
Sent sad o'er western hills its parting light,
And no returning morn dispersed the long, dark
night.

"On the drear walls a sudden splendour glow'd, There MASON shone, and there his veterans

pour'd.

Anew the hero claim'd the fiends of blood, While answering storms of arrows round him shower'd,

And the war-scream the ear with anguish gored.
Alone he burst the gate: the forest round
Re-echoed death; the peal of onset roar'd;
In rush'd the squadrons; earth in blood was
drown'd;

And gloomy spirits fled, and corses hid the ground.

"Not long in dubious fight the host had striven, When, kindled by the musket's potent flame, In clouds and fire the castle rose to heaven, And gloom'd the world with melancholy beam. Then hoarser groans with deeper anguish came, And fiercer fight the keen assault repell'd: Nor even these ills the savage breast could tame; Like hell's deep caves the hideous region yell'd, Till death and sweeping fire laid waste the hostile

field.

"Soon the sad tale their friends surviving heard, And MASON, MASON, rung in every wind: Quick from their rugged wilds they disappear'd, Howl'd down the hills, and left the blast behind. Their fastening foes, by generous STOUGHTON

join'd,

Hung o'er the rear, and every brake explor'd; But such dire terror seized the savage mind, So swift and black a storm behind them lower'd, On wings of raging fear, through spacious realms they scour❜d.

"Amid a circling marsh expanded wide,

To a lone hill the Pequods wound their way;
And none but Heaven the mansion had descried,
Close-tangled, wild, impervious to the day;
But one poor wanderer, loitering long astray,
Wilder'd in labyrinths of pathless wood,
In a tall tree embower'd, obscurely lay:
Straight summon'd down, the trembling suppliant
show'd

Where lurk'd his vanish'd friends within their drear abode.

"To death the murderers were anew required, A pardon proffer'd, and a peace assured; And, tho' with vengeful heat their foes were fired, Their lives, their freedom, and their lands secured. Some yielding heard. In fastness strong immured,

The rest the terms refused with brave disdain; Near and more near the peaceful herald lured, Then bade a shower of arrows round him rain, And wing'd him swift from danger to the distant plain.

"Through the sole, narrow way, to vengeance led,
To final fight our generous heroes drew;
And STOUGHTON now had pass'd the moor's black
shade,

When hell's terrific legion scream'd anew.
Undaunted on their foes they fiercely flew ;
As fierce, the dusky warriors crowd the fight;
Despair inspires; to combat's face they glue;
With groans and shouts they rage, unknowing
flight,

And close their sullen eyes in shades of endless night."

Indulge, my native land! indulge the tear That steals impassion'd o'er a nation's doom: To me each twig from Adam's stock is near, And sorrows fall upon an Indian's tomb. And, O ye chiefs! in yonder starry home, Accept the humble tribute of this rhyme. Your gallant deeds, in Greece or haughty Rome, By MARO Sung, or HOMER's harp sublime, Had charm'd the world's wide round, and triumph'd over time.

THE SOCIAL VISIT.*

YE Muses! dames of dignified renown, Revered alike in country and in town, Your bard the mysteries of a visit show; For sure your ladyships those mysteries know: What is it, then, obliging sisters! say, The debt of social visiting to pay?

"Tis not to toil before the idol pier;
To shine the first in fashion's lunar sphere;
By sad engagements forced abroad to roam,
And dread to find the expecting fair at home!
To stop at thirty doors in half a day,
Drop the gilt card, and proudly roll away;
To alight, and yield the hand with nice parade;
Up stairs to rustle in the stiff brocade;
Swim through the drawing-room with studied air,
Catch the pink'd beau, and shade the rival fair;
To sit, to curb, to toss with bridled mien,
Mince the scant speech, and lose a glance between;
Unfurl the fan, display the snowy arm,
And ope, with each new motion, some new charm:
Or sit in silent solitude, to spy

Each little failing with malignant eye;
Or chatter with incessancy of tongue,
Careless if kind or cruel, right or wrong;
To trill of us and ours, of mine and me,
Our house, our coach, our friends, our family,
While all the excluded circle sit in pain,
And glance their cool contempt or keen disdain :
To inhale from proud Nanking a sip of tea,
And wave a courtesy trim and flirt away:
Or waste at cards peace, temper, health, and life,
Begin with sullenness, and end in strife;
Lose the rich feast by friendly converse given,
And backward turn from happiness and heaven.
It is in decent habit, plain and neat,
To spend a few choice hours in converse sweet,
Careless of forms, to act the unstudied part,
To mix in friendship, and to blend the heart;
To choose those happy themes which all must feel,
The moral duties and the household weal,
The tale of sympathy, the kind design,
Where rich affections soften and refine;
To amuse, to be amused, to bless, be bless'd,
And tune to harmony the common breast;
To cheer with mild good-humour's sprightly ray,
And smooth life's passage o'er its thorny way;
To circle round the hospitable board,
And taste each good our generous climes afford;
To court a quick return with accents kind,
And leave, at parting, some regret behind.
*From "Greenfield Hill.”

THE COUNTRY PASTOR.*

AH! knew he but his happiness, of ment Not the least happy he, who, free from broils And base ambition, vain and bustling pomp, Amid a friendly cure, and competence, Tastes the pure pleasures of parochial life. What though no crowd of clients, at his gate, To falsehood and injustice bribe his tongue, And flatter into guilt?-what though no bright And gilded prospects lure ambition on To legislative pride, or chair of state? What though no golden dreams entice his mind To burrow, with the mole, in dirt and mire? What though no splendid villa, Eden'd round With gardens of enchantment, walks of state, And all the grandeur of superfluous wealth, Invite the passenger to stay his steed,

And ask the liveried foot-boy," Who dwells here?" What though no swarms, around his sumptuous board,

Of soothing flatterers, humming in the shine
Of opulence, and honey from its flowers
Devouring, till their time arrives to sting,
Inflate his mind; his virtues round the year
Repeating, and his faults, with microscope
Inverted, lessen, till they steal from sight?—
Yet from the dire temptations these present
His state is free; temptations, few can stem;
Temptations, by whose sweeping torrent hurl'd
Down the dire steep of guilt, unceasing fall
Sad victims, thousands of the brightest minds
That time's dark reign adorn; minds, to whose grasp
Heaven seems most freely offer'd; to man's eye,
Most hopeful candidates for angels' joys.

His lot, that wealth, and power, and pride forbids,
Forbids him to become the tool of fraud,
Injustice, misery, ruin; saves his soul
From all the needless labours, griefs, and cares,
That avarice and ambition agonize;

From those cold nerves of wealth, that, palsied, feel
No anguish, but its own; and ceaseless lead
To thousand meannesses, as gain allures.

Though oft compell'd to meet the gross attack
Of shameless ridicule and towering pride,
Sufficient good is his; good, real, pure,
With guilt unmingled. Rarely forced from home,
Around his board his wife and children smile;
Communion sweetest, nature here can give,
Each fond endearment, office of delight,
With love and duty blending. Such the joy
My bosom oft has known. His, too, the task
To rear the infant plants that bud around;
To
ope their little minds to truth's pure light;
To take them by the hand, and lead them on
In that straight, narrow road where virtue walks;
To guard them from a vain, deceiving world,

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And point their course to realms of promised life.
His too the esteem of those who weekly hear
His words of truth divine; unnumber'd acts
Of real love attesting to his eye
Their filial tenderness. Where'er he walks,
The friendly welcome and inviting smile
Wait on his steps, and breathe a kindred joy.
Oft too in friendliest association join'd,
He greets his brethren, with a flowing heart,
Flowing with virtue; all rejoiced to meet,
And all reluctant parting; every aim,
Benevolent, aiding with purpose kind;
While, season'd with unblemish'd cheerfulness,
Far distant from the tainted mirth of vice,
Their hearts disclose each contemplation sweet
Of things divine; and blend in friendship pure,
Friendship sublimed by piety and love.

All virtue's friends are his: the good, the just,
The pious, to his house their visits pay,
And converse high hold of the true, the fair,
The wonderful, the moral, the divine:
Of saints and prophets, patterns bright of truth,
Lent to a world of sin, to teach mankind
How virtue in that world can live and shine;
Of learning's varied realms; of Nature's works;
And that bless'd book which gilds man's darksome
way

With light from heaven; of bless'd Messiah's throne
And kingdom; prophecies divine fulfill'd,
And prophecies more glorious yet to come
In renovated days; of that bright world,
And all the happy trains which that bright world
Inhabit, whither virtue's sons are gone:
While God the whole inspires, adorns, exalts;
The source, the end, the substance, and the soul.
This too the task, the bless'd, the useful task,
To invigour order, justice, law, and rule;
Peace to extend, and bid contention cease;
To teach the words of life; to lead mankind
Back from the wild of guilt and brink of wo
To virtue's house and family; faith, hope,
And joy to inspire; to warm the soul
With love to God and man; to cheer the sad,
To fix the doubting, rouse the languid heart;
The wandering to restore; to spread with down
The thorny bed of death; console the poor,
Departing mind, and aid its lingering wing.

To him her choicest pages Truth expands,
Unceasing, where the soul-entrancing scenes
Poetic fiction boasts are real all:

Where beauty, novelty, and grandeur wear
Superior charms, and moral worlds unfold
Sublimities transporting and divine.

Not all the scenes Philosophy can boast, Though them with nobler truths he ceaseless blends, Compare with these. They, as they found the mind, Still leave it; more inform'd, but not more wise: These wiser, nobler, better, make the man.

Thus every happy mean of solid good His life, his studies, and profession yield. With motives hourly new, each rolling day Allures, through wisdom's path and truth's fair field, His feet to yonder skies. Before him heaven Shines bright, the scope sublime of all his prayers, The meed of every sorrow, pain, and toil.

THE COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER.*

WHERE yonder humble spire salutes the eye,
Its vane slow-turning in the liquid sky,
Where, in light gambols, healthy striplings sport,
Ambitious learning builds her outer court;
A grave preceptor, there, her usher stands,
And rules without a rod her little bands.

Some half-grown'sprigs of learning graced his brow:
Little he knew, though much he wish'd to know;
Enchanted hung o'er VIRGIL's honey'd lay,
And smiled to see desipient HORACE play;
Glean'd scraps of Greek; and, curious, traced afar,
Through POPE's clear glass the bright Mæonian star.
Yet oft his students at his wisdom stared,
For many a student to his side repair'd;
Surprised, they heard him DILWORTH's knots untie,
And tell what lands beyond the Atlantic lie.

Many his faults; his virtues small and few ;*
Some little good he did, or strove to do;
Laborious still, he taught the early mind,
And urged to manners meek and thoughts refined;
Truth he impress'd, and every virtue praised;
While infant eyes in wondering silence gazed;
The worth of time would day by day unfold,
And tell them every hour was made of gold.

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The bright expansion lighten'd all the scene,
And deeper shadows lengthen'd o'er the green.
Loud through the walls, that cast a golden gleam,
Crown'd with tall pyramids of bending flame,
As thunders rumble down the darkening vales,
Roll'd the deep, solemn voice of rushing gales:
The bands, admiring, saw the wondrous sight,
And expectation trembled for the fight.

At once the sounding clarion breathed alarms;
Wide from the forest burst the flash of arms;
Thick gleam'd the helms; and o'er astonish'd fields,
Like thousand meteors rose the flame-bright shields.
In gloomy pomp, to furious combat roll'd [gold;
Ranks sheath'd in mail, and chiefs in glimmering
In floating lustre bounds the dim-seen steed,
And cars unfinish'd, swift to cars succeed:
From all the host ascends a dark-red glare,
Here in full blaze, in distant twinklings there;

*From "Greenfield Hill,”

+ This and the three following extracts are from "The Conquest of Canaan."

Slow waves the dreadful light, as round the shore Night's solemn blasts with deep confusion roar: So rush'd the footsteps of the embattled train, And send an awful murmur o'er the plain.

Tall in the opposing van, bold IRAD stood, And bid the clarion sound the voice of blood. Loud blew the trumpet on the sweeping gales, Rock'd the deep groves, and echoed round the vales; A ceaseless murmur all the concave fills, Waves through the quivering camp, and trembles

o'er the hills.

High in the gloomy blaze the standards flew;
The impatient youth his burnish'd falchion drew;
Ten thousand swords his eager bands display'd,
And crimson terrors danced on every blade.
With equal rage, the bold, Hazorian train
Pour'd a wide deluge o'er the shadowy plain;
Loud rose the songs of war, loud clang'd the shields,
Dread shouts of vengeance shook the shuddering
fields;

With mingled din, shrill, martial music rings,
And swift to combat each fierce hero springs.
So broad, and dark, a midnight storm ascends,
Bursts on the main, and trembling nature rends;
The red foam burns, the watery mountains rise,
One deep, unmeasured thunder heaves the skies;
The bark drives lonely; shivering and forlorn,
The poor, sad sailors wish the lingering morn :
Not with less fury rush'd the vengeful train;
Not with less tumult roar'd the embattled plain.
Now in the oak's black shade they fought conceal'd;
And now they shouted through the open field;
The long, pale splendours of the curling flame
Cast o'er their polish'd arms a livid gleam;
An umber'd lustre floated round their way,
And lighted falchions to the fierce affray.
Now the swift chariots 'gainst the stubborn oak
Dash'd; and the earth re-echoes to the shock.
From shade to shade the forms tremendous stream,
And their arms flash a momentary flame.
Mid hollow tombs as fleets an airy train,
Lost in the skies, or fading o'er the plain;
So visionary shapes, around the fight,
Shoot through the gloom, and vanish from the sight;
Through twilight paths the maddening coursers
bound,

The shrill swords crack, the clashing shields resound.
There, lost in grandeur, might the eye behold
The dark-red glimmerings of the steel and gold;
The chief; the steed; the nimbly-rushing car;
And all the horrors of the gloomy war.

Here the thick clouds, with purple lustre bright, Spread o'er the long, long host, and gradual sunk

in night;

Here half the world was wrapp'd in rolling fires,
And dreadful valleys sunk between the spires.
Swift ran black forms across the livid flame,
And oaks waved slowly in the trembling beam:
Loud rose the mingled noise; with hollow sound,
Deep rolling whirlwinds roar, and thundering
flames resound.

As drives a blast along the midnight heath,
Rush'd raging IRAD on the scenes of death;
High o'er his shoulder gleam'd his brandish'd blade,
And scatter'd ruin round the twilight shade.

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