On many a carcase shine the dews of night, Save when at times is heard the glutted raven's scream. Where some wrecked army from the conqueror's might Speed their disastrous flight, With thee, fierce genius! let me trace their way, And hear at times the deep heart-groan Of some poor sufferer left to die alone, His sore wounds smarting with the winds of night; And we will pause, where, on the wild, The mother to her frozen breast, On the heaped snows reclining clasps her child, Black Horror! speed we to the bed of death, Then to his wildly-starting eyes Their groans for vengeance and the demon's yell In one heart-maddening chorus swell. Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew, And night eternal darkens on his view. Horror! I call thee yet once more! Bear me to that accursed shore Where round the stake the impaled negro writhes. The blasting gales of pestilence ! Arouse the race of Afric! holy power, Lead them to vengeance! and in that dread hour When ruin rages wide, I will behold and smile by Mercy's side. TO A FRIEND. AND wouldst thou seek the low abode Till old experience comes to lend his leading ray. Not he who comes with lanthorn light Though power invite thee to her hall, There stalks the midnight spectre, Care; If fame allure thee, climb not thou For far from thence does peace abide, And thou shalt find fame's favouring smile Cold as the feeble sun on Hecla's snow-clad side. And, traveller! as thou hopest to find Retire thee from the thronging road, And thou shalt fly from woe; So safely mayst thou pass from these, No happier state can mortal know, Yet still content with him may dwell THE MORNING MIST. LOOK, William, how the morning mists The distant spire across the vale But seest thou, William, where the mists The dim effulgence of the sun Soon shall that glorious orb of day Through clear and cloudless skies. Then shall we see across the vale And the grey wood and meadow green So, William, from the moral world The light that struggles through them now TO THE BURNIE BEE. BLITHE Son of summer, furl thy filmy wing, Here mayst thou freely quaff the nectar'd sweet Or with the wild-thyme's balm anoint thy sides. Daunted by me beneath this trembling bough His grate of twinkling threads successful strain, With venom'd trunk thy writhing members slay, Or from thy heart the reeking life's-blood drain. Forego thy wheeling in the sunny air, Thy glancing to the envious insects round, To the dim calmness of my bower repair, Silence and coolness keep its hallowed ground. Here to the elves who sleep in flowers by day A provincial name of the beetle coccinella, or lady-bird. |