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That name shall be storied in record sublime,
In the uttermost corners of earth:
Yes, bury my heart in the boundless sea :—
It would burst from a narrower tomb, Should less than an ocean my sepulchre be, Or if wrapped in less horrible gloom!
John Malcolm, Esq.
Outrageous did the loud wind blow
The vessel tossing to and fro,
Matilda to her fearful breast
Held close her infant dear;
And waked the tender tear.
Now nearer to the grateful shore,
Matilda, with a mother's joy,
Gave thanks to heaven's power; How fervent she embraced her boy! How blest the saving hour!
O! much deceived and hapless fair,
For, stepping forth from off the deck,
Amazement-chained! her haggard eye
Her bosom heaved no conscious sigh,
To snatch the child from instant death,
But when the corse had met her view, Stretched on the pebbly strand, Roused from her exstacy she flew, And pierced th' opposing band.
With tresses discomposed and rude,
Now throwing round a troubled glance, With madness' ray inflamed,
And, breaking from her silent trance, She wildly thus exclaimed:
Heard ye the helpless infant scream? Saw ye the mother bold?
How, as she flung him in the stream, The billows o'er him rolled?
But soft, awhile-see! there he lies,
'Yes, yes-his little life is fled,
His heaveless breast is cold;
Ah me! that cheek of livid hueThat brow-that auburn hairThose lips where late the roses blew, All, all my son declare.
'Strange thrilling horrors chill each vein-
Thunders to this distracted brain,
She added not-but sunk oppressed,
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My choir shall be the moonlight wayes,
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,