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"Att last," he cried, " Omniscient Heaven,
Relentinge, views wyth pitying eye,
And yieldes thatt hallowed tranquil spot
Where, all forgettinge, ande forgott,
I'll lyve mie little hour and die."

'Twas there hee built hys blamelesse cell,
Ande there hee fix'd hys calm retreat;
The cowslips on the summit smil'd,
Lyke hym, the hermits of the wyld!
Belowe the restless ocean beat.

Oft, whenne the wintrie tempest rose,
Ande wyld winds chaf 'd the rollinge deeppe,
Whenne everie starre wythdrew ytts light,
Ande the darke cloude of murkie night
Conceal'd the terrors of the steepe;

The Hermit bade his watchlight burn,
Ande beam a beacon onn the clyff,
The lonelie mariner to chearre,

To soothe hym on hys night-watch drearre,
And guide aright hys fragile skiff.

O, sweet! for whom I stryke the lyre,
Thatt warbles negligent of art,
Seeke nott the Hermit's tale to know,
For ytt would make thyne eyes o'erflowe,
Ande grieffe sitt swelling at thie heart.

Hee slumbers yn the lappe of rest,

Ande all hys grieffes att last are o'er,
'Tis where yon tall clyff rears ytts headde,
The cowslips there their bosoms spreadde,
The ocean laves hys cavern hoar.

Ande oft, whenne Spring imprints the sod,
And bids hys golden tresses wave,

The rustic villagers are seen

Slow trooping o'er the velvet green,

To deck wyth scented herbs hys grave.

The sailor too, whenne storms arise,
And darkness veils each friendlie starre,
Sighs sad, who never sigh'd before,
When on the clyff hee spies no more
The Hermit's watchlight gleam afar.

The

The MISTRESS.

[From Mr. ELTON'S POEMS.]

PORTS and blandishments and smiles,
Tempting tricks and wanton wiles,
Playful raill'ries, arts of pleasure,
Winning rogueries without measure;
Keen incitements, cunning blisses,
Sighs and whispers, murm'ring kisses,
And whate'er with pleasing pains
Maddens the Lover's venom'd veins,
Avaunt! with me no more to dwell;
And hence, Neæra! hence farewell!
But O come of purer kind,
Health of body, health of mind,
Chaste discretion, sober fear,

Temp'rate blood and conscience clear;
Truth in singleness of heart,

Keen-discerning syren art,

And whatever Pow'rs remove

The venom'd stings of madd'ning Love,

Now be present here to me,

From the yoke of passion free.

Hence in vain, ye sports and smiles,

Hence in vain, ye wanton wiles;
Playful raill'ries, arts of pleasure,
Winning rogueries without measure,
Keen incitements, cunning blisses,
Sighs and whispers, murm'ring kisses,
All ye blandishments of art,
Hence! in vain ye tempt my heart.
Why with pliant arms delay me?
Why with longing looks survey me?
Why with kisses treach'rous-kind
Seek you to ensnare my mind?—
Press no more with idle art
Lip to lip and heart to heart;
Ply the crafty trade no more,
I am not blind as heretofore.
When you valued Virtue's prize
You were dearer than mine eyes;
Thou hast turn'd to vice and shame;
Tarnish'd is thy decent fame;
And thy beauty now I deem
Viler than the sullied stream!-
Wo, alas! my Life, my Soul!
Lucid tear-drops trickling roll,

2

Tremble

Tremble from thy lids, and rest
On thy softly swelling breast;
Soft the stealing shower descends;
Pearl with pearl successive blends;
Modest drops of comely dew,
Can I these indiff'rent view?
Am I rock or brass, to see

Those pure lustres dimm'd for me?
Could I this unmov'd behold,

Brass and rock were softer mould.
Then, O then, of purer kind,
Health of body, health of mind;
Chaste discretion, sober fear,

Temp'rate blood and conscience clear;
Truth in singleness of heart,

Keen-discerning syren art;

And whatever Pow'rs remove

The venom'd stings of madd'ning Love;
O farewell!-and now again

Now be present looser train;
Sports and blandishments and smiles,
Tempting tricks and wanton wiles,
Playful raill'ries, arts of pleasure,
Winning rogueries without measure;
Keen incitements, cunning blisses,
Sighs and whispers, murm'ring kisses,
And whate'er with pleasing pains
Maddens the Lover's venom'd veins :
Thus were it sweet possest of all thy charms
To live-and sweet to die within thine arms!

T

LINES to the HERO of JAFFA.

[From the same.]

HOU! who dost bruise with adamantine rod
The groaning earth, blind instrument of God!
I mark thy rageful bosom struggling high,
Satanic passions low'ring in thine eye!
While brooding evil thoughts, demoniac hate,
Thou deem'st thy puny arm the scourge of Fate;
Thou deem'st accomplice Heaven directs thy aim,
Blasts by thy breath, and thunders in thy name;
Thou deem'st at hand th' inevitable hour,
And curst the nation that defies thy pow'r.
Lo! to thy proud anticipating eyes

The wide waste scenes of Desolation rise,

The

The seas are past-Lo! wither'd by thy might
The recreant host precipitates its flight;
Then Demon Triumph yells along the plain,
And Murder laughs exulting o'er the slain;
Alike the palace tow'rs, the Shepherd's homes,
Insatiate blood-red Rapine awless roams;
Deathshrieks of torture on the shudd'ring air
Commingle wild with wailings of Despair;
With outrag'd bosom, with convulsive breath,
The fainting Virgin supplicates for death;
Clasp'd to the kneeling Mother's sacred breast,
The Infant bleeds-and Horror veils the rest !—
Thou-who unmov'd midst tears and groans and blood,
Sit'st on a throne of ghastly Solitude;
A MOLOCH IDOL, by the lurid gleams

Of victim altars, list'ning Infant screams;
Thou! who couldst bend on pale Distemper's train
An eye of blood, and doom them with the slain;
While as in praises flow'd their falt'ring breath,
Who shar'd the banquet slept the sleep of death:
Thou! who on Jaffa's guilty height hast stood
And in grim rapture gaz'd the waste of blood;
While as delib'rate rush'd the slaught'ring flame,
And coward Fury paus'd with frigid aim;
Beneath the mild and holy light of day
In welt'ring heaps the prostrate Captives lay;
If when the nightly darkness hovers round,
No startful horrors wake the bosom-wound;
If Hell's assistant Fiends with icy mail

Have arm'd thy nature-HOIST THE DARING SAIL
Midst clang'rous trumpets and exultant cries.
I see embark'd thy vaunted destinies :

Thy glance reverted views the less'ning shore,
That once abandon'd-thou return'st no more !—
O monstrous hope! O arrogant of mind!
In atheist pride fierce, obstinate, and blind;

Let Mem'ry wake!--He lives whose val'rous arm
Shook thy bold breast with tumult of alarm;
When as the deeps in swift succession swell
O'er the dash'd rocks--the rocks their rage repel;
Still urg'd amain with aggravated roar,
And still in foam receding from the shore;
So heaps on heaps thy foil'd confed'rates fled,
And the choak'd breach ran purple with their dead.
Let Mem'ry wake!-or shall Oblivion veil,

In awe of thee, the bold impartial tale?

Sir Sydney Smith,

Seest

Seest thou yon sculptur'd pile* that seems to rise
And midst the palmy desert threat the skies?
Exalted there th' Historic Muse appears,
And registers the storied lapse of years:
High on the column's base observant stands,
And grasps the style with firm untrembling hands;
There deeds of horror swell the roughen'd stone,
And Infamy there marks thee for her own;
While from the marble forms heroic start,
And gen'rous valour heaves each dauntless heart;
Lo! Albion's Youth disprove th' insulting boast,
And scourge the prowess of thy vet'ran host;
Trampling to earth the standard of their pride,
Wrought with long triumphs and in combats dyed.
In Vict'ry's grasp the dying Chief elate

Smiles greatly patient and resign'd to Fate;
Torn from the Gaul's fell brow her laurels bloom,
Shelter his hoary head and grace his hallow'd tomb.
Died Albion's valour with the Patriot dead?
Fled her brave Spirit with the Spirit fled?
But thou shalt find beyond the mediate main,
That Abercrombie's soul revives again;
Yet undegen'rate from their daring sires,
Yet kindling with hereditary fires;

In bright array the Sons of Freedom stand,
A dreadless and unconquerable band.

Shall SHE, whose proud and world-opposing lance

Has drunk of yore the dearest blood of France;

Of France, whose wrecks yet strow the sov'RAN ISLE,
Whose gore yet blushes on the strand of Nile;
Shall SHE let fall the terrors of her spear,

And learn, O shame!-and learn from thee to fear?
Ha! thou hast rous'd the LION in his den!
The strife thou temptest is the strife of MEN!
Compar'd to this, thy direst, deadliest fray
Were but the baby pastime of a day :

Here FREEDOM sits and braves thy tyrant shock,
With red-cross shield, her throne BRITANNIA's rock!
Then by the wrongs which ravag'd Europe owns
From all thy crimes-by all her tears and groans;
By all the helpless unoffending names

Of them who gasp'd amidst Tenesco's flames;

By Alexandria's Mothers gore-imbrued;

By wanton Carnage drunk with Infant blood;

By the wan Captive's shriek and struggling breath,
By the dread stupor of the sleep of death;

This idea was suggested by the allegorical frontispiece to Tresham's Epistle from Britannicus to Buonaparte.

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