He bounds along his craggy road, And all he sees and all he hears And if the mist, retiring slow, But, when behind the western clouds Sorely along the craggy road And if the mists of night close round, So cheerfully does youth begin WESTBURY, 1798. THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS. ALAS for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood, It grew and it flourished for many an age, But, when its strong branches were bent with the blast, It struck its root deeper, and flourished more fast. Its head towered on high, and its branches spread round; For its roots had struck deep, and its heart was sound; The bees o'er its honey-dewed foliage played, And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade. The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear; Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood, There crept up an ivy, and clung round the trunk; It struck in its mouths, and its juices it drunk; The branches grew sickly, deprived of their food, And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood. The foresters saw, and they gathered around; No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews played, Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade; Lopt and mangled, the trunk in its ruin is seen, A monument now what its beauty has been. The Oak has received its incurable wound; They have loosened the roots, though the heart may be sound; What the travellers at distance green-flourishing see, Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood, THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA. ON Vorska's glittering waves Where to the fight moves on The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede. When man by man his veteran troops sunk down, Frozen to their endless sleep, He held undaunted on. Him Pain hath not subdued; What though he mounts not now The fiery steed of war, Borne on a litter to the field he goes. Go, iron-hearted king! Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast; The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawned! Proud Swede! the sun hath risen That on thy shame shall set! Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest! Ruin hath raised his unrelenting arm; For ere the night descends, His veteran host destroyed, His laurels blasted to revive no more, Impatiently that haughty heart must bear That sleepless soul must brook. Not The ineffaceable reproach is fixed, The infamy abides. Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest! WESTBURY, 1798. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. SWEET to the morning traveller And cheering to the traveller The gales that round him play, And, when beneath the unclouded sun Full wearily toils he, The flowing water makes to him A soothing melody. |