Not all the magic cunning of the scene, Tho' Siddons' self in sorrow's pomp be seen, Can wake emotions in the callous mind,
Vers'd in the crooked science of mankind,
So soft, so strong, so warm, as here are known, Where modest Nature works, and works alone. The vivid portion of celestial fire,
Which bids the energetic soul aspire,
Like the clear flames that light the frozen zone,
Blown by the favouring breath of heaven alone,
More brightly blazes, more intensely glows,
Than where slow art her languid aid bestows.
Now all the household with due reverence kneel,
While in emphatic phrase with fervent zeal,
The Parent Swain pours out his ardent prayer,
For the dear objects of his tenderest care;
Or else, by humble gratitude inspir'd,
His swelling heart with holy transport fir'd,
Presents his praise-an Evening Sacrifice,
Sincere and welcome to the approving skies.
Thus blessing Heaven, and by each other blest,
They drown their toils in sweet oblivious rest.
No Hamlet without some Widow, who is in a great measure supported, and saved from the disgrace of a mendicant life, by the little Society.
WHERE yonder ridgy mountains bond the scene, The narrow opening glens that intervene
Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure,
One than the rest-where all are poor;
Some widow'd Matron, hopeless of relief,
Who to her secret breast confines her grief;
Dejected sighs the wintry night away,
And lonely muses all the summer day:
Her gallant sons, who smit with honour's charms,
Pursued the phantom Fame thro' war's alarms,
Return no more; stretch'd on Hindostan's plain,
Or sunk beneath th' unfathomable main;
In vain her eyes the watery waste explore,
For heroes-fated to return no more!
Let others bless the morning's reddening beam,
Foe to her peace—it breaks th' illusive dream
That, in their prime of manly bloom confest,
Restor❜d the long lost warriors to her breast;
And as they strove, with smiles of filial love,
Their widow'd parent's anguish to remove,
Thro' her small casement broke th' intrusive day,
And chas'd the pleasing images away!
No time can e'er her banish'd joys restore,
For ah! a heart once broken, heals no more.
The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye,
The "still small voice" of sacred sympathy,
In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile,
Or steal from weary woe one languid smile;
Yet what they can they do,-the scanty store,
So often open'd for the wandering poor,
To her each cottager complacent deals,
While the kind glance the melting heart reveals;
And still, when evening streaks the west with gold,
The milky tribute from the lowing fold
With cheerful haste officious children bring,
And every smiling flower that decks the Spring:
Ah! little know the fond attentive train,
That Spring and flowerets smile for her in vain :
Yet hence they learn to reverence modest woe,
And of their little all a part bestow.
Let those to wealth and proud distinction born,
With the cold glance of insolence and scorn
Regard the suppliant wretch,—and harshly grieve
The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve,
Far different these;-while from a bounteous heart
With the poor sufferer they divide a part;
Humbly they own that all they have is given
A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven:
And the next blighted crop, or frosty spring,
Themselves to equal indigence may bring.
From WALLACE, or the Fight of Falkirk.
WALLACE in sober mood revolves
High soaring hopes and deep resolves;
Sees victory gain'd, the day his own,
A native monarch on the throne,
And hears his much-lov'd country shed
A thousand blessings on his head!
'Twas a gay dream, the voice of Græme Dispers'd it, and it fled away,
As fly from morning's ruddy beam
The mists of early day:
As its accents came to Wallace' ear,
They sounded with half their wonted cheer,
And when he rais'd his speaking eye,
It sparkled with half the usual joy,
For who so blithe as the gallant Græme,
When he stood on the edge of the hour of fame!
But now a strange, unwelcome guest
O'erclouds his brow, and chills his breast;
His generous heart disdain'd to bear
The ponderous weight of untold care;
Tho' half asham'd, his lips confess
His fancy's dreary dreams, his bosom's heaviness.
"Wallace, in many a busy hour
We have look'd on death together,
We have seen the fiercest war-clouds lower,
Stood calm mid many an iron shower,
And mock'd the pelting weather;
And smil'd to see our burnish'd mail
Turn the thick storm of arrowy hail;
For still, wherever Wallace trod
My foot as firmly press'd the sod;
My heart's first boast, my dearest pride,
To stand or fall by Wallace' side!
How wilt thou marvel then to hear,
That gossip tales and baby fear,
Sleep's flimsy shades-night's mockeries,
With magic film delude my eyes,
Till to my heart the future seems
Crowded with sanguine forms, a scene of ghastly
Nay, Wallace, smile not on thy friend;
"Tis pressing on a thorn:
Chide, and thy voice shall not offend;
But Græme endures not scorn!
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