The God of the Dead in his Bower Shall receive thee, and bid thee join

The dance of eternal joy.

7.

Brother, we pay thee the rites of death; Rest in thy Bower of Delight!

Westbury, 1799.

THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE BODY OF HIS FATHER.

1.

REST in peace, my Father, rest!

With danger and toil have 1 borne thy corpse
From the Stranger's field of death.

I bless thee, O Wife of the Sun,
For veiling thy beams with a cloud,
While at the pious task
Thy votary toil'd in fear.

Thou badest the clouds of night

Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man;

But didst thou not see my toil,
And put on the darkness to aid,
O Wife of the visible God?

2.

Wretched, my Father, thy life!
Wretched the life of the Slave!

All day for another he toils;
Overwearied at night he lies down,
And dreams of the freedom that once he enjoy'd.
Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth,
My Father! for then thou wert free.
In the fields of the nation thy hand
Bore its part of the general task;

And when, with the song and the dance,
Ye brought the harvest home,
As all in the labor had shared,
So justly they shared in the fruits.

3.

Thou visible Lord of the Earth,
Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart,
O Giver of light and of life!
When the Strangers came to our shores,
Why didst thou not put forth thy power?
Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd,
Thy fires should in lightnings have flash'd!-
Visible God of the Earth,

The Strangers mock at thy might!
To idols and beams of wood
They force us to bow the knee;
They plunge us in caverns and dens,
Where never thy blessed light
Shines on our poisonous toil!
But not in the caverns and dens,
O Sun, are we mindless of thee!
We pine for the want of thy beams,
We adore thee with anguish and groans.

4.

My Father, rest in peace!

Rest with the dust of thy Sires!
They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp;-
They bore thee to their burial-place,

And over thy breathless frame
Their bloody and merciless Priest
Mumbled his magic hastily.

Oh! could thy bones be at peace
In the field where the Strangers are laid?
Alone, in danger and in pain,
My Father, I bring thee here:
So may our God, in reward,
Allow me one faithful friend
To lay me beside thee when I am released!
So may he summon me soon,
That my Spirit may join thee there,
Where the strangers never shall come!
Exeter, 1799.

SONG OF THE ARAUCANS

DURING A THUNDER-STORM.

THE storm-cloud grows deeper above, Araucans! the tempest is ripe in the sky; Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss, They come to the war of the winds

The Souls of the Strangers are there,

In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven;

Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill
Is red with their weapons of fire.

Hark! hark! in the howl of the wind The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums; The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight Is the blast that disbranches the wood.

Behold from the clouds of their power The lightning, the lightning is lanced at our sires!

And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of Heaven!

And the darkness that quenches the day!

Ye Souls of our Fathers, be brave! Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth, Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire; Brave Spirits, ye tremble not now!

We gaze on your warfare in hope, We send up our shouts to encourage your arms! Lift the lance of your vengeance, O Fathers, with force,

For the wrongs of your country strike home!

Remember the land was your own When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas; That the old fell asleep in the fulness of days,

And their children wept over their graves;

Till the Strangers came into the land With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire: Then the strength of the people in youth was cut off, And the father wept over his son.

It thickens-the tumult of fight! Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard!. Remember the wrongs that your country endures! Remember the fields of your fame!

Joy joy! for the Strangers recoil,— They give way,-they retreat,-they are routed,— they fly;

He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams, Kindred Spirits of Him who is holy and great! And where was thy warning, O Bird,

The timely announcer of ill?

Alas! when thy brethren in conquest return'd; When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads,

And the pine-boughs of triumph before,
Where the scalps of their victory swung,-

The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not there! [brought; alas, the white deer-skin was And thy grave was prepared in the tent Which I had made ready for joy!

The Souls of your wives shall rejoice As they welcome you back to your Islands of Bliss; And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow Waft thither the song of your praise.

Westbury, 1799.

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit,-
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy grave!
To-morrow the victims shall die,
And I shall have joy in revenge.
Westbury, 1799.

SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW.

THE

Now go to the battle, my Boy!

Dear child of my son,

There is strength in thine arm,

There is hope in thy heart, Thou art ripe for the labors of war.

Thy Sire was a stripling like thee When he went to the first of his fields.

2.

He return'd, in the glory of conquest return'd: Before him his trophies were borne,

These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the
Have rusted their raven locks. [rain
Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived,
The day of the warrior's reward;

When the banners sunbeaming were spread,
And all hearts were dancing in joy
To the sound of the victory-drum.

The Heroes were met to receive their reward;
But distinguish'd among the young Heroes that day,
The pride of his nation, thy Father was seen:
The swan-feathers hung from his neck,
His face like the rainbow was tinged,
And his eye,- how it sparkled in pride!
The Elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow
The crown that his valor had won,
And they gave him the old honor'd name.

I remember thy terrible eyes

How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy.

I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek,
As thy hand from the pole reach'd its doers of death;
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud,
Ere the thunder and lightning are born.

And the youth of the nation were told To respect him and tread in his steps.

3.

My Boy! I have seen, and with hope, The courage that rose in thine eye When I told thee the tale of his death. His war-pole now is gray with moss,

His tomahawk red with rust; His bowstring, whose twang was death, Now sings as it cuts the wind; But his memory is fresh in the land, And his name with the names that we love.

4.

Go now and revenge him, my Boy! That his Spirit no longer may hover by day O'er the hut where his bones are at rest, Nor trouble our dreams in the night. My Boy, I shall watch for the warrior's return, And my soul will be sad

Till the steps of thy coming I see. Westbury, 1799.

OCCASIONAL PIECES.

I.

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL.

WHAT! and not one to heave the pious sigh?
Not one whose sorrow-swollen and aching eye,
For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,
Shall drop a tear, and dwell upon the dead?
Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee,
And sorrow for forlorn humanity.

Yes, I will weep; but not that thou art come
To the cold Sabbath of the silent tomb:
For pining want, and heart-consuming care,
Soul-withering evils, never enter there.
I sorrow for the ills thy life has known,
As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone,
Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,
Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on;
Thy youth in ignorance and labor past,
And thine old age all barrenness and blast!
Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe,
Denied thee wisdom to support the blow;
And robb'd of all its energy thy mind,
Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind,
Abject of thought, the victim of distress,
To wander in the world's wide wilderness.

Lifted in solemn thought. "Tis not the pomp
And pageantry of death that with such force
Arrests the sense; - the mute and mourning train,
The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse,
Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke
A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek
At pride's last triumph. Now these measured
sounds,

This universal language, to the heart

Speak instant, and on all these various minds
Compel one feeling.

But such better thoughts

Will pass away, how soon! and these who here
Are following their dead comrade to the grave,
Ere the night fall will in their revelry
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew

he is gone,

No resting-place, no dear delights of home,
Belike who never saw his children's face,
Whose children knew no father,
Dropp'd from existence, like a blasted leaf
That from the summer tree is swept away,
Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death
Who bore him, and already for her son
Her tears of bitterness are shed; when first
He had put on the livery of blood,
She wept him dead to her.

We are indeed
Clay in the potter's hand! One favor'd mind,
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore
The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man,
Framed with like miracle, the work of God,
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on
A life of labor; like this soldier here,
His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain,
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes
A mere machine of murder.

And there are

Who say that this is well! as God has made
All things for man's good pleasure, so of men
The many for the few! Court-moralists,
Reverend lip-comforters, that once a week
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and though now
Toiling and troubled, they may pick the crumbs
That from the rich man's table fall, at length
In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus.
Themselves meantime secure their good things
here,

And feast with Dives. These are they, O Lord!
Who in thy plain and simple Gospel see

All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoin'd,
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them

Who shed their brethren's blood,— blind at noon

III.

My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld The low tower of the little pile, might deem It were the house of God; nor would he err

GASPAR! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes
Beguile the lonely hour! I sit and gaze
With lingering eye, till dreaming Fancy makes
The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul
From the foul haunts of herded human-kind
Flies far away with spirit speed, and tastes
The untainted air, that with the lively hue
Of health and happiness illumes the cheek
Of mountain Liberty. My willing soul
All eager follows on thy faery flights,
Fancy best friend; whose blessed witcheries
With cheering prospects cheat the traveller
O'er the long wearying desert of the world.
Nor dost thou, Fancy! with such magic mock
My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew,
Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage,
Who in her vengeance for so many a year
Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced
Lisuart, the pride of Grecian chivalry.
Friend of my lonely hours! thou leadest me
To such calm joys as Nature, wise and good,
Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons,
Her wretched sons who pine with want amid
The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down
Before the Moloch shrines of Wealth and Power,
Authors of Evil. Well it is sometimes
That thy delusions should beguile the heart,
Sick of reality. The little pile

That tops the summit of that craggy hill
Shall be my dwelling: craggy is the hill

And steep; yet through yon hazels upward leads
The easy path, along whose winding way
Now close embower'd I hear the unseen stream
Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam
Gleam through the thicket; and ascending on,
Now pause me to survey the goodly vale
That opens on my prospect. Half way up,
Pleasant it were upon some broad, smooth rock
To sit and sun myself, and look below,
And watch the goatherd down yon high-bank'd path
Urging his flock grotesque; and bidding now
His lean, rough dog from some near cliff go drive
The straggler; while his barkings, loud and quick,
Amid their tremulous bleat, arising oft,
Fainter and fainter from the hollow road
Send their far echoes, till the waterfall,
Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff beneath,
Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet
Onward, and I have gain'd the upmost height.
Fair spreads the vale below: I see the stream
Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky.
A passing cloud darkens the bordering steep,
Where the town-spires behind the castle-towers
Rise graceful; brown the mountain in its shade,
Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd,
Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun,
Should bound mine eyes, ―ay, and my wishes too,
For I would have no hope or fear beyond.
The empty turmoil of the worthless world,
Its vanities and vices, would not vex

Of peace and love, and they would hallow it
To Him. Oh, life of blessedness! to reap
The fruit of honorable toil, and bound

Our wishes with our wants! Delightful thoughts,
That soothe the solitude of weary Hope,
Ye leave her to reality awaked,

Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dream
Of friends, and liberty, and home restored,
Startled, and listening as the midnight storm
Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars.
Bath, 1795.

IV.

WRITTEN

ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1795.

How many hearts are happy at this hour

In England! Brightly o'er the cheerful hall Flares the heaped hearth, and friends and kindred

meet,

And the glad mother round her festive board
Beholds her children, separated long

Amid the wide world's ways, assembled now -
A sight at which affection lightens up

With smiles the eye that age has long bedimm'd.
I do remember, when I was a child,

How my young heart, a stranger then to care,
With transport leap'd upon this holyday,
As o'er the house, all gay with evergreens,
From friend to friend with joyful speed I ran,
Bidding a merry Christmas to them all.
Those years are past; their pleasures and their pains
Are now like yonder convent-crested hill
That bounds the distant prospect, indistinct,
Yet pictured upon memory's mystic glass
In faint, fair hues. A weary traveller now
I journey o'er the desert mountain tracks
Of Leon, wilds all drear and comfortless,
Where the gray lizards in the noontide sun
Sport on the rocks, and where the goatherd starts,
Roused from his sleep at midnight when he hears
The prowling wolf, and falters as he calls
On Saints to save. Here of the friends I think
Who now,
I ween, remember me, and fill
The glass of votive friendship. At the name
Will not thy cheek, Beloved, change its hue,
And in those gentle eyes uncall'd-for tears
Tremble? I will not wish thee not to weep;
Such tears are free from bitterness, and they
Who know not what it is sometimes to wake
And weep at midnight, are but instruments
Of Nature's common work. Yes, think of me,
My Edith, think that, travelling far away,
Thus I beguile the solitary hours
With many a day-dream, picturing scenes as fair
Of peace, and comfort, and domestic bliss,
As ever to the youthful poet's eye
Creative Fancy fashion'd. Think of me.