1 "Tis not to sit, and con a theme, Whate'er the cynic may pretend, Oh! for a mine of gold to give, 1 To bless unseen, unseen descend And oft both seen and felt to pour, For sharper suff'rings than thy own, "Tis thine, O Penury, to groan, Stretch'd on the rack of life. Thy cradled child unconscious sleeps, But woe for her who wakes and weeps, The mother and the wife. O fortune come, and crown my fate, To youth, and industry, and health, For an Autumnal Bouquet of Field-Flowers and Corn. To Flora, gay nymph, and to corn-loving Ceres, This harvest-home tribute we gratefully twine; On their brows then fast bind it, ye tutelar Lares,/ And Winter shall weave a green chaplet for thine. Here rye lightly mingles with barley grown sere, And oats that, pale-waving, o'ersilver'd the ground; While each wheat-sheaf was robb'd of its weightiest ear, For the wild growing floret that blossom'd around. Twine blue-bells with poppies, that outblush'd Aurora, And king-cups fresh gather'd, while pearly with dew: Then take it, O Ceres! and take it, O Flora! The garland of Nature may grace even you. THE WAR-SONG OF PRUSSIA*. Multa dies variique labor mutabilis ævi VIRGIL I. WHERE is now the warrior's breast? Careless of Prussia's ancient name? To bathe our red-right hands in blood; Scorn'd by the generous and the good, II. Yes, we will still repel the foe, Still stem the vile Usurper's sway; The wretch, whom yesterday laid low, Written (alas! too evidently) previous to the fatal battle of Friedland. Else what remain?-The galling chain, Our freedom lost, our laurels torn, By our hapless country's call, By the scornful smiles of Gaul, Scorn that tortures, smiles that sting! Who in their country's cause have shed By mighty Frederick's soul-inspiring name, IV. Tremble, vile Usurper! hide Thy guilty head in dunnest night; War's iron rule, Death's funeral scream shall cease, And Europe smile secure beneath the plume of peace! SOBRINO. TO A TITLED DESTROYER. "What's property? dear Swift! you see it alter The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year. At best it falls to some ungracious son, Who cries, "My father's damn'd, and all's my own." POPE. THOU ruthless destroyer, whose impious hand Nor of joy, nor of hope, feel thy bosom a gleam. In thine ear, clos'd for ever to choirs of the grove, May the ominous bird croak from evening 'till morn; In crowds, shunn'd like pestilence, lone may'st thou rove, Pursued by the laugh and the whisper of scorn. |