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Albion cliffs—from age to age,
That bear the roaring storms of heav'n. Did ever fiercer warfare rage,
Was ever peace more timely given 1 Wake! sounds of joy: rouse, generous isle;
Let every patriot bosom glow: Beauty, resume thy wonted smile,
And, Poverty, thy cheerful brow.
Boast, Britain, of thy glorious guests;
Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own Still on contented Labour rests
The basis of a lasting throne.
Protected Wealth, the chorus raise,
Accept a prostrate nation's praise.
PLACE OF MY NATIVITY.
Though winter's frowns had damp'd the beaming
eye, Though twelve successive summers heav'd the sigh, The unaccomplish'd wish was still the same; Till May in new and sudden glories came! My heart was rous'd; and Fancy, on the wing, Thus heard the language of enchanting spring:— 'Come to thy native groves and fruitful fields! Thou know'st the fragrance that the wild flow'r
yields; Inhale the breeze that bends the purple bud, And plays along the margin of the wood. I've cloth'd them all; the very woods where thou In infancy learn'd'st praise from every bough. Would'st thou behold again the vernal day? My reign is short;—this instant come away: Ere Philomel shall silent meet the morn; She hails the green, but not the rip'ning corn. Come, ere the pastures lose their yellow flow'rs: Come now; with heart as jocund as the hours.'
Who could resist the call!—that Giles had done, Nor heard the birds, nor seen the rising sun; Had nat Benevolence, with cheering ray, And Greatness stoop'd, indulgent to display Praise which does surely not to Giles belong. But to the objects that inspir'd his song. Immediate pleasure from those praises flow'd; Remoter bliss within his bosom glow'd!
Now tasted all;—for I have heard and seen The long remember'd voice, the church, the
green :— And oft by friendship's gentle hand been led Where many a hospitable board was spread. These would I name—but each, and all can feel What the full heart would willingly reveal: Nor needs be told; that at each season's birth, Still the enamell'd, or the scorching earth Gave, as each morn or weary night would come, Ideal sweetness to my distant home: Ideal now no more :—for, to my view Spring's promise rose, how admirably true! The early chorus of the cheerful grove Gave point to gratitude, and fire to love. O Memory! shield me from the world's poor strife, And give those scenes thine everlasting life!
PASTORAL AND LOCAL POETEY.
THE WIDOW JONES,
A FAMILIAR BALLAD.
Well! I'm determined; that's enough:—
I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,
Our master talks of stable-room,
Tis easy to foresee thy doom,
Bayard, thou'lt go to feed the hounds.
But could I win the widow's hand,
I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee;
For thou upon the best of land
Should'st feed, and live, and die with me.
And must the pole-axe lay thee lowt
No—hang me if it shall be so,
If I can win the Widow Jones.
Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
A bran-new hat uplifted bore; And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
Had never look'd so gay before.
And every spark of love reviv'd
That had perplex'd him long ago, When busy folks and fools contriv'd
To make his Mary answer—no.
But whether, freed from recent vows,
And mark'd him for a second spouse,
Howbeit, as he came in sight,
And downward look'd with pure delight,
She heard his sounding step behind.
As cheerly floated on the wind,
"Hoi! Mary Jones—what wont you speak!"
Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
And scolding sparrows from the eaves
Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,
Resolv'd, whatever might betide, To speak his mind, no other art
He ever knew, or ever tried.
And gently twitching Mary's hand,
His first word made her understand