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.
Shout, Poverty! 'tis Heaven that saves;

Protected Wealth, the chorus raise,
Ruler of war, of winds, and waves,

Accept a prostrate nation's praise.

ON REVISITING

THE

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!

WILD FLOWERS;

OR

PASTORAL AND LOCAL POETEY.

ABNER

THE WIDOW JONES,

A FAMILIAR BALLAD.

Well! I'm determined; that's enough:—
Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones,

I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,
To go and court the Widow Jones.

Our master talks of stable-room,
And younger horses on his grounds;

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
And will they pick thy poor old bones?

No—hang me if it shall be so,

If I can win the Widow Jones.

F

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,
Her heart had back to Abner flown,

And mark'd him for a second spouse,
In truth is not exactly known.

Howbeit, as he came in sight,
She turn'd her from the garden stile.

And downward look'd with pure delight,
With half a sigh and half a smile.

She heard his sounding step behind.
The blush of joy crept up her cheek,

As cheerly floated on the wind,

"Hoi! Mary Jones—what wont you speak!"

Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
She turn'd, but found her courage fled;

And scolding sparrows from the eaves
Peep'd forth upon the stranger's head.

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,
The bench had ample'room for two,

His first word made her understand
The plowman's errand was to woo.