صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

Erin, my country! | though sad, and forsaken, |
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; |
But, alas! in a far foreign land, I awaken, |

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more,. | O cruel fate! | wilt thou never replace me | In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase' me? | Never again shall my brothers embrace me,—|

They died to defend me, ❘ or live to deplore, ! |


Where is my cab'in-door, | fast by the wild wood? |
Sisters, and sire, did ye weep for its fall'? |
Where is the mother that look'd on my child hood? |
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all. ?
O my sad soul! long abandon'd by pleasure, |
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure! |
Tears, like the rain'-drops, may fall without meas`ure; |
But rapture, and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its fond recollections suppressing, |

One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw: | Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! |

Land of my forefathers! | Erin go bragh! | Buried, and cold, when my heart stills her motion, | Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion— | Erin ma vournin! Erin go bragh, !* |




Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note', |
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; |
Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot |
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.


* Ireland my darling! — Ireland for ever!

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning, |
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, |
And the lantern dimly burning. |

No useless coffin enclos'd his breast, |

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him; | But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, | With his martial cloak around him. | Few, and short were the prayers we said; | And we spoke not a word of sorrow; | But we steadfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead; | And we bitterly thought of the morrow. |

We thought, as we hallow'd his narrow bed, |
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, |
That the foe, and the stranger would tread o'er his
head; |

And we far away on the billow. |

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, |
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; |
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on |
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. I
But half of our heavy task was done, |

When the clock told the hour for retiring; |
And we knew by the distant, and random gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing. |
Slowly, and sadly we laid him down |

From the field of his fame, fresh, and gory:|
We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone',
But left him alone in his glory. |



The universe may be considered as the palace in which the Deity resides; and the earth, as one of its


apartments. In this, all the meaner races of animated nature mechanically obey him; and stand ready to execute his commands without hesitation. Man alone is found refractory: | he is the only being, endued with a power of contradicting these mandates. The Deity was pleased to exert superior power in creating him a superior being; a being endued with a choice of good, and evil; and capable, in some measure, | of co-operating with his own intentions. | Man, therefore, may be considered as a limited creature, endued with powers, imitative of those residing in the Deity. He is thrown into a world that stands in need of his help; and he has been granted a power of producing harmony from partial confusion. I

If, therefore, we consider the earth | as allotted for our habitation, we shall find, that much has been given us to enjoy, and much to amend、; that we have ample reasons for our gratitude, and many for our industry. In those great outlines of nature, to which art cannot reach, and where our greatest efforts must have been ineffectual, | God himself has finished every thing with amazing grandeur, and beauty. | Our beneficent Father has considered these parts of nature as peculiarly his own; as parts which no creature | could have skill, or strength to amend; and he has, therefore, made them incapable of alteration, or of more perfect regularity. The heavens, and the firmament show the wisdom, and the glory of the Workman. Astronomers, who are best skilled in the symmetry of systems, | can find nothing there that they can alter for the better. God made these perfect, because no subordinate being | could correct their defects.


1 When, therefore, we survey nature on this side, | nothing can be more splendid, more correct, or amazing. We there behold a Deity | residing in the midst of a universe, infinitely extended every way, animat1 ing all, and cheering the vacuity with his presence. | We behold an immense, and shapeless mass of matter, |


formed into worlds by his power, and dispersed at intervals, to which even the imagination cannot travel. In this great theatre of his glory, a thousand suns, like our own, animate their respective systems, | appearing, and vanishing at Divine command. | We behold our own bright luminary, fixed in the centre of its system, wheeling its planets in times proportioned to their distances, and at once dispensing light, heat, and action. The earth also is seen with its twofold motion; producing by the one, the change of seasons; | and, by the other, the grateful vicissitudes of day, and night. With what silent magnificence is all this performed with what seeming ease! The works of art are exerted with interrupted force; and their noisy progress discovers the obstructions they receive. ; | but the earth, with a silent, steady rotation, | successively presents every part of its bosom to the sun; | at once imbibing nourishment, and light | from that parent of vegetation, and fertility. |

But not only provisions of heat, and light are thus supplied; the whole surface of the earth is covered with a transparent at'mosphere that turns with its motion, and guards it from external injury. The rays of the sun are thus broken into a genial warmth'; | and, while the surface is assisted, a gentle heat is produced in the bowels of the earth, | which contributes to cover it with verdure. Waters also are supplied in healthful abundance, to support life, and assist vegetation. Mountains rise to diversify the prospect, and give a current to the stream. Seas extend from one continent to the other, replenished with animals that may be turned to human support; | and also serving to enrich the earth with a sufficiency of vapour. | Breezes fly along the surface of the fields, to promote health, and vegetation. The coolness of the evening invites to rest; and the freshness of the morning renews for labour. J

Such are the delights of the habitation that has been

assigned to man, without any one of these, he must have been wretched; | and none of these could his own industry have supplied. But while, on the one hand, many of his wants are thus kindly furnished, | there are, on the other, | numberless inconveniences to excite his industry. This habitation, though provided with all the conveniences of air, pasturage, and water, | is but a desert place, without human cultivation. The lowest an'imal finds more conveniences in the wilds of nature, than he who boasts himself their lord. The whirlwind, the inundation, and all the asperities of the air, are peculiarly terrible to man, who knows their consequences, and, at a distance, dreads their approach. The earth itself, where human art has not pervaded, puts on a frightful, gloomy appearance. | The forests are dark, and tangled; the meadows are overgrown with rank weeds; and the brooks stray without a determined channel. Nature, that has been kind to every lower order of beings, seems to have been neglectful with regard to him: to the savage uncontriving man, the earth is an abode of desolation, | where his shelter is insufficient, and his food precarious. |

A world, thus furnished with advantages on one side, | and inconveniences on the other, is the proper abode of reason, and the fittest to exercise the industry of a free, and a thinking creature. These evils, which art can remedy, and prescience" guard against, are a proper call for the exertion of his faculties; and they tend still more to assimilate him to his Creator. [ God beholds, with pleasure, that being which he has made, converting the wretchedness of his natural situation | into a theatre of triumph; | bringing all the headlong tribes of nature | into subjection to his will、 ; | and producing that order, and uniformity upon earth, | of which his own heavenly fabric is so bright an example.

a Prè'shè-êns.

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