Imatges de pÓgina

On the forecastle Maratan stood,

And poured forth his sorrowful tale; His tears fell unseen in the flood,

And his sighs passed unheard on the gale;

"Ah wretch!" in wild anguish he cried,
"From country and liberty torn!
Ah! Maratan, would thou had'st died,
Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne.

Through the groves of Angola I strayed,
Love and hope made my bosom their home;
There I talked with my favourite maid,
Nor dreamed of the sorrows to come.

From the thicket the man-hunter sprung,
My cries echoed loud through the air;
There were fury and wrath on his tongue,
He was deaf to the voice of despair.

Accursed be the merciless band,

That his love could from Maratan tear; And blasted this impotent hand,

That was severed from all I held dear.

Flow, ye tears-down my cheeks ever flow;
Still let sleep from my eyelids depart,
And still may the arrows of wo,

Drink deep of the stream of my heart.

But, hark! o'er the silence of night,
My Adila's accents I hear;
And mournful, beneath the wan light,
I see her loved image appear.

Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides,

As the mist that hangs light on the wave,

And fondly her lover she chides,

Who lingers so long from his grave.

"Oh Maratan! haste thee," she cries,
"Here, the reign of oppression is o'er;
"The tyrant is robbed of his prize,
"And Adila sorrows no more."

Now sinking amidst the dim ray,
Her form seems to fade on my view;
O! stay thee-my Adila, stay!
She beckons, and I must pursue.

To-morrow the white man, in vain,
Shall proudly account me his slave;
My shackles I plunge in the main,
And rush to the realms of the brave!"


THE wind was high, the window shakes,
With sudden start the Miser wakes;
Along the silent room he stalks;

Looks back, and trembles as he walks!
Each lock and every bolt he tries;
In every creek and corner pries,
Then opes the chest with treasure stored,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard.
But now with sudden qualms possest,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast:
By conscience stung, he wildly stares;
And thus his guilty soul declares :

"Had the deep earth her stores confined, "This heart had known sweet peace of mind. "But virtue's sold. Good gods! what price "Can recompense the pangs of vice? "O bane of good! seducing cheat! “Can man, weak man, thy power defeat? "Gold banished honour from the mind, "And only left the name behind; "Gold sowed the world with every ill;

"Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill :

""Twas gold instructed coward hearts
"In treachery's more pernicious arts.
"Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
"Virtue resides on earth no more!"
He spoke, and sighed. In angry mood,
Plutus, his god, before him stood.
The miser trembling, locked his chest ;
The vision frowned, and thus addrest :
"Whence is this vile ungrateful rant?
"Each sordid rascal's daily cant.
"Did I, base wretch, corrupt mankind?
"The fault's in thy rapacious mind.
"Because my blessings are abused,
"Must I be censured, cursed, accused?
"Even virtue's self by knaves is made
"A cloak to carry on the trade;

"And power (when lodged in their possession)
"Grows tyranny, and rank oppression.
"Thus, when the villain crams his chest,
"Gold is the canker of the breast;
"Tis avarice, insolence, and pride,
"And every shocking vice beside.
"But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
"It blesses, like the dews of heaven:
"Like heaven, it hears the orphans cries,
"And wipes the tears from widows eyes:
"Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
"Who pawned their sordid souls for pay?
"Let bravoes then (when blood is spilt)
"Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.”


There's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb, Beneath is a soldier lying,

The death-wound came amid sword and plume, When banner and ball were flying.

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,
By wet wild flowers surrounded;

The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest,
Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears that fell from manly eyes,
There was woman's gentler weeping,
And the wailing of age and infant cries,
O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.

He had left his home in his spirit's pride,
With his father's sword and blessing;
He stood with the valiant side by side,
His country's wrongs redressing.

He came again, in the light of his fame,
When the red campaign was over;
One heart that in secret had kept his name,
Was claimed by the soldier lover.

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky;
He left his sweet home for battle;
And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,
And the cannon's long death-rattle.

He came again, but an altered man:
The path of the grave was before him,
And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,
For the shadow of death hung o'er him.

He spoke of victory,-spoke of cheer :-
These are words that are vainly spoken
To the childless mother or orphan's ear,
Or the widow whose heart is broken.

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone, Half hidden by yonder willow;

There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won, But, who died on his own home-pillow!


A Grecian Youth, of talents rare,
Whom Plato's philosophic care
Had formed for Virtue's nobler view,
By precept and example too,

Would often boast his matchless skill,
To curb the steed, and guide the wheel;
And as he passed the gazing throng,
With graceful ease, and smacked the thong,
The idiot wonder they expressed,

Was praise and transport to his breast.

At length, quite vain, he needs must show His master what his art could do:

And bade his slaves the chariot lead
To Academus' sacred shade.

The trembling grove confessed its fright,
The wood-nymphs started at the sight,
The Muses dropt the learned lyre,
And to their inmost shades retire!
Howe'er, the youth with forward air
Bows to the sage, and mounts the car;
The lash resounds, the coursers spring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring;
And gathering crowds, with eager eyes,
And shouts, pursue him as he flies.

Triumphant to the goal returned,
With nobler thirst his bosom burned;
And now along the indented plain,
The self-same track he marks again;
Pursues with care the nice design,
Nor ever deviates from the line.

Amazement seized the circling crowd,
The youths with emulation glowed;
Even bearded sages hailed the boy,
And all, but Plato, gazed with joy;
For he, deep-judging sage, beheld
With pain the triumphs of the field;

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