But Hope a happiness imparts
That Truth could ne'er have given,
And mingles with the cup of woe
A soothing draught from Heaven.
Yet not by thee fair Nature's face
Was always seen through tears,
Nor always pale thy channell'd cheek,
Where health no more appears.
'Twas when for thee on Avon's side
Love lighted up the day,
And lent new power to Beauty's charms, And bade thy heart be gay.
Who of the youth by Avon's wave
With Edwin could compare?
And 'mong the maids that haunt its banks,
As Lucy, who so fair?
Love's sweet contagion soon was caught,
And quickly too reveal'd, And in the holy eye of Heaven
By mutual vows was seal'd.
Oft in the blossom-woven bower
They breath'd alternate vows,
And shar'd that interchange of heart
That Virtue only knows:
Or led the walk along the mead,
Beneath the dewy light,
What time the star of twilight shone,
Or the fair queen of night.
But, Edwin, these are virgin charms
That thou must ne'er possess,
Unless from Fortune thou canst win
The smile, and bland caress.
Go! Edwin, go! and urge the chace,
Since nought but gold can move
The eye of Avarice to smile
Propitious on thy love.
Go! ply th' illimitable search,
From Indus to the Pole;
Go! and the flatterer, Hope, shall shed Her day-dreams on thy soul;
And Love shall lend his pleasing aid
To cheat the lingering hours,
And Fancy give the Maid to range
With thee Idalian bowers.
He went :-the tempest swift descends,
The billows threat the skies,-
The wreck is strew'd along the strand,-
The hapless lover dies!
Divided pair! your tender tale
Shall to the Muse be dear,
And oft her pity shall bestow
The tributary tear.
And oft to the responsive lyre
Your story shall relate,
And mourn that love so true, should meet
On earth no better fate.
SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, SHEFFIELD,
On the Occasion of a Play, performed by Desire of Colonel, the Right Hon. the Earl of Effingham, and the Sheffield Volunteer Infantry.
WRITTEN BY MR. E. RHODES.
Flourish of Drums and Trumpets.
Hang up our banners on the outer walls, "The cry is still " They come."
AND let them come; who talks, who thinks of fear,
When every British lad's a Volunteer?
When good old England sees her patriot host
Form the firm line that guards their native coast,
And the proud structure which her laws have rear'd,
By all defended, and to all endear'd:
Nor less elate, she views the hardy Tar,
Nursed in the strife of elemental war,
Tho' tempests blacken and the surges roar,
His watch-tower keep on Gallia's hostile shore;
Safe in whose ports the pent-up mischief rides,
Awed by that power which triumphs o'er the tides:
Whilst baffled hatred, scowling o'er the main,
Rolls the fierce eye and champs the teeth in vain.
Our fathers found this island poor and rude,
With social joys they cheer'd the solitude:
They gave it Laws, Religion, Power, and State;
They gave it all that makes a nation great;
They spread its empire o'er the subject sea;
They made it STRONG and RICH-they made it FREE!
And shall, in after times, our children say,
We gave the dear inheritance away?
What! we the dear inheritance forego?
No! by the spirits of our fathers, no!
Celestial Peace! all lovely as thou art,
Dear as the blood that warms the human heart!
Patron of Science! source of every good!
The rich man's BLESSING, and the poor man's FOOD!
O, might thy gentler influence prevail,
Trade ope her mines, and Commerce spread her sail!
Yet, what avail, sweet Peace! thy loveliest charms,
When injured England cries aloud "TO ARMS ?”
To arms, with eager haste, her sons advance,
And, single handed, dare the power of France.
England alone! degenerate Europe hear!
By every tie, that Honour holds most dear;
By thy long suffering, by thine alter'd state!
Thy great made little, and thy little great:
And O, by fair Italia's ravaged plains!
By her sack'd cities, and her plunder'd fanes!
By Egypt's wrongs! and by that dreadful night,
When old Nile listen'd to Aboukir's fight!
By the hot blood that smoked on Jaffa's plains!
By the fell drug that drank the sick man's veins !
By Abercromby's death! by all the brave,
Who sought and found, with him, a soldier's grave!
Europe awake! why slumbers still thy might?
Glory shall prompt, and Conquest crown the fight.
Batavia yet may cast her chains away,
And hail the dawning of a brighter day:
The voice of gladness cheer her childrens' hearts,
And Commerce throng her now forsaken marts.
E'en the poor Swiss, oppress'd and harass'd long,
May tune to Liberty his mountain song;
May find restored his heritage on earth,
And once more love the place that gave him birth.
But tho' no TELL in Europe's cause embark,
And speed thine arrow, Freedom! to its mark:
Tho' bleeding nations feel the' oppressor's chain,
And mourn their mightiest struggles made in vain ;
Yet thy green isles, O Britain! still shall be
The HOME, the PROUDEST HOME, of LIBERTY.
SWEET is the peasant's sleep!
Sweet, if by toil he earn his bread:
He knows not half the care and dread
Which agitate the rich man's mind,
And make him watch and weep;
But, casting sorrow to the wind,
Sweet is the peasant's sleep!
Refreshing are his dreams!
No tantalizing scenes of wealth
Mock him, possess'd of ease and health,
He fears not murderers, storms, nor fire,
The rich man's nightly themes;
But Innocence and Peace inspire
His light and pleasant dreams.
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