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النشر الإلكتروني

He bounds along his craggy road,
He hastens up the height,

And all he sees and all he hears
Administer delight.

And if the mist, retiring slow,
Roll round its wavy white,
He thinks the morning vapors hide
Some beauty from his sight.

But, when behind the western clouds
Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller
Pursues his evening way!

Sorely along the craggy road
His painful footsteps creep,
And slow, with many a feeble pause,
He labors up the steep.

And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear;
He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.

So cheerfully does youth begin
Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels
The fears of wary age!

WESTBURY, 1798.

THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS.

ALAS for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood,
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

It grew and it flourished for many an age,
And many a tempest wreaked on it its rage;

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;
Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her
spear.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood,
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!

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;
The roots still were fast, and the heart still was sound;
They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread,
But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed.

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,
Are the leaves of the ivy that poisoned the tree.

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood,
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood!
WESTBURY, 1798.

THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA.

ON Vorska's glittering waves
The morning sunbeams play;
Pultowa's walls are thronged
With eager multitudes s;
Athwart the dusty vale
They strain their aching eyes,

Where to the fight moves on

The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.

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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!
Full of thy former fame;
Think how the humbled Dane
Crouched underneath thy sword;
Think how the wretched Pole
Resigned his conquered crown:
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!
For over that relentless Swede

Ruin hath raised his unrelenting arm;

For ere the night descends,

His veteran host destroyed,

His laurels blasted to revive no more,
He flies before the Muscovite.

Impatiently that haughty heart must bear
Long years of hope deceived;
Long years of idleness

That sleepless soul must brook.
Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest!
To him who suffers in an honest cause,
No death is ignominious; not on thee,
But upon Charles, the cruel, the unjust,
upon thee, on him

Not

The ineffaceable reproach is fixed,

The infamy abides.

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Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest! WESTBURY, 1798.

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

SWEET to the morning traveller
The song amid the sky,
Where, twinkling in the dewy light,
The skylark soars on high.

And cheering to the traveller

The gales that round him play,
When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noontide way.

And, when beneath the unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,

The flowing water makes to him

A soothing melody.

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