My soul is sick, with ev'ry day's report
Of wrong and outrage, with which Earth is fill'd.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,
It does not feel for man; the nat❜ral bond
Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colour'd like his own; and having pow'r
T'enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause,
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd
Make enemies of nations, who had else
Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And, worse than all, and most to be deplor'd
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat
With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart,
Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast.
Then what is man? And what man seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush
And hang his head, to think himself a man?
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home: then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave,
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free,
They touch our country and their shackles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through every vein
Of all your empire! that, where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.
OH, Sweet Adare! oh, lovely vale!
Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendour!
Nor summer sun, nor morning gale
E'er hailed a scene more softly tender.
How shall I tell the thousand charms
Within thy verdant bosom dwelling,
Where lulled in Nature's fost❜ring arms,
Soft peace abides and joy excelling.
Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn
The slumbering boughs your song awaken, Or linger o'er the silent lawn,
With odour of the harebell taken. Thou rising sun, how richly gleams
Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, O'er waving woods and bounding streams, And many a grove and glancing fountain.
In sweet Adare, the jocund spring
His notes of odorous joy is breathing,
The wild birds in the woodland sing,
The wildflowers in the vale are breathing.
There winds the Mague, as silver clear,
Among the elms so sweetly flowing,
There fragrant in the early year,
Wild roses on the banks are blowing.
The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank,
Or dives beneath the glistening billow,
Where graceful droop and clustering dank
The osier bright and rustling willow.
The hawthorn scents the leafy dale,
In thicket lone the stag is belling,
And sweet along the echoing vale
The sound of vernal joy is swelling.
We miss her foot-fall on the floor,
Amidst the nursery din;
Her tip-tap at our bedroom door,
Her bright face peeping in.
And when to heaven's high court above
Ascends our social prayer,
Though there are voices that we love,
One sweet voice is not there.
And dreary seem the hours, and lone,
That drag themselves along,
Now from our board her smile is gone
And from our hearth her song.
We miss that farewell laugh of hers
With its light, joyous sound,
And the kiss between the balusters,
When "Good night" time comes round.
And empty is her little bed,
And on her pillow there
Must never rest that cherub head,
With its soft, silken hair.
But often as we wake and weep,
Our midnight thoughts will roam
To visit her cold dreamless sleep
In her last narrow home.
Then, then it is Faith's tear-dimmed eyes.
See through ethereal space,
Amidst the angel-crowded skies,
That dear, that well-known face.
With beckoning hand she seems to say,
"Though, all her sufferings o'er,
Your little one is borne away
To this celestial shore,
Doubt not she longs to welcome you
To her glad, bright abode,
There, happy, endless ages through,
To live with her and God."
Ba'-lus-ters, stair or balcony rails.
E-ther'-e-al, heavenly.
Ce-les'-ti-al, belonging to the sky.
THE SONG OF THE BREEZE.
I'VE swept o'er the mountain, the forest, and fell;
I've play'd on the rock where the wild chamois dwell;
I have tracked the desert so dreary and rude,
Through the pathless depths of its solitude;
Through the ocean caves of the stormy sea,
My spirit has wandered in the midnight free;
I have slept in the lily's fragrant bell,
I have moaned on the ear through the rosy shell;
I have roamed along by the gurgling stream,
I have danced at eve with the pale moonbeam ;
I have kissed the rose in its blushing pride,
Till my breath the dew from its lips has dried;
I have stolen away on my silken wing
The violet's scent in the early spring;
I have hung over groves where the citron grows,
And the clust'ring bloom of the orange blows;
I have sped the dove on its errand home,
O'er mountain and river, and sun-gilt dome;
I have hushed the babe in its cradled rest
With my song, to sleep on its mother's breast.
PICTURE OF A VILLAGE LIFE.
SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
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