No torrents rushing down with fearful force,
Disturb its peaceful breast and tranquil course;
But on it flows, unruffled and serene,
Clear as the sky that in its waves is seen.
Oh well, Helvetia, hast thou earn'd thy fame;
And well hast thou deserv'd thy envied name!
Free, not licentious-satisfied, tho' poor,
Ambition vainly tries thy steps to lure ;
What, tho' beneath thy Alpine mountains lay
Inviting fields that boast a warmer ray,
A slothful race, whom no proud feelings move,
Strangers to freedom, and their country's love,
Yet still no lust of conquest swells thy veins,
Or tempts thy footsteps from their native plains
Dear, native plains! how often have I stray'd,
Or stretch'd my limbs beneath your linden's shade,
Seen wars in ev'ry realm, on ev'ry side,
Destroy the shepherd's hope, the monarch's pride;
Whilst thou, Helvetia, from thy throne of snow
Unhurt hast heard the tempests roar below;
And as the storm with fiercer rage has roll'd,
Hast clasp'd and clung to Peace with closer fold.
Yet in the train of peace no eye shall view
Luxury with palsied hand and pallid hue;
Nor Lust, with fev'rish pulse and swelling vein,
Nor Indolence that drags her limbs with pain;
But Industry, uprising with the day,
And Health, that greets the earliest solar ray;
And calm Contentment with her sober mien,
That smiles upon the board and blesses all the scene!
The sun that streaks with gold Heav'n's eastern face,
Assembles all the peasant's happy race;
Lowly to Heav'n the grateful father bends,
From ev'ry voice the thankful note ascends;
And even the babe, as with the breast it plays, Lisps, tho' it knows not why, its pray'r and praise. The frugal breakfast ended, to the plains
They speed with willing hearts and jocund strains,
And from the Sire, as some lov'd song proceeds,
Loud echo'd from the hill, o'er all the meads,
They turn the swathe and give it to the wind,
Or in the sheaf the yellow harvest bind ;
Or train the vine, or carefully display
Its ripening fruit to catch the solar ray;
Or, when its boughs, scarce able to support
The purple clusters, seem relief to court;
With willing hands, the loaded tree despoil,
Whilst many a vintage song rewards the toil;
Then for his fair one from the spreading leaves,
gay and guiltless crown the shepherd weaves;
And as the pendant boughs the pair conceal,
He dares at length his passion to reveal :
The while, her downcast eye and blushing cheek,
An equal passion, equal pleasure speak.-
The labourer homeward hies-the sun declines;
His last rays faintly gild the waving pines;
The merry pipe is heard-the sports are seen;
The gambols rude, the dances on the green;
While underneath the limes, the homely board,
With fruits and creams is plentifully stor❜d.
Nor less the pleasures of this happy race,
When Winter's angry storm the fields deface,-
Then clinging closer to their native cot,
The humble tenants bless their tranquil lot :
Press to the chearful fire whilst tempests roll,
And hear, unmov'd, the blast around them howl→
The tale begins-
Of the poor wand'rer by the night surpris'd, Whose path the snow fast falling has disguis'd;
Who onward slowly moves with fearful feet;
Scarce daring to advance, nor daring to retreat;
Chill'd by the driving snow; more chill'd by dread,
He fears to find a grave at every tread ;-
Around the waste he throws his anxious eye,
And sees no welcome shade nor shelter nigh;
No busy hum of men his bosom cheers;
No distant watch-dog's bark delights his ears;
All things seem dead; he only left behind
The last survivor of the human kind.
Then Mem'ry's torturing pow'r his bosom rends,
He thinks of home, of family and friends—
Of home, which he may never more behold;
Of wife, he never more may to his bosom fold;
Of children climbing to her lap to dry,
Or kiss the swelling tear that fills her eye;
Anon, too, Fancy paints them at the door,
Eager to see if yet the storm be o'er;
Around their listening mother close they stand,
Strain'd every eye; stretch'd out each little hand;
Whilst by each little tongue is ask’d in vain,
When naughty Father will return again?
Rack'd by the scene, in agony of grief,
He groans a pray'r to Heav'n for quick relief;
Then onward o'er the wild and snow-clad waste,
By desperation driv'n, his footsteps haste-
His pray'r is heard! Beneath the mountain's crest
He sees, whilst rapt'rous transports fill his breast→→
He sees the curling cottage smoke arise,
And to the door, secure of welcome, flies!
There, by th' enlivʼning blaze, the tempests roar,
Black blasts, and driving snows are felt no more.
There, too, the maiden home her swain invites,
For love, amidst these scenes in truth delights,
Nor as in crowded cities seek disguise,
Asham'd, and shrinking from the parents' eyes,
Here on their loves th' approving parents smile,
Dread no deceit, suspect and fear no guile;
But as the growing flame well pleased they view
Their own past youth and scenes of love renew.
ON MRS. GROVE, OF LITCHFIELD CLOSE,
Written by her husband William Grove, Esq. and inscribed on an elegant Monument erected in the beautiful Cathedral of Litchfield.
GRIEF, Love, and Gratitude, devote this stone
To her, whose virtues blest a husband's life;
When late in Duty's sphere she mildly shone,
As friend, as sister, daughter, mother, wife.
In the bright morn of beauty, joy, and wealth,
Insidious Palsy near his victim drew;
Dash'd from her youthful hands the cup of health,
And round her limbs his numbing fetters threw.
Year after year her Christian firmness strove,
To check the rising sigh, the tear repress;
Sooth with soft smiles the fears of anxious love,
And Heaven's correcting hand in silence bless.
Thus try'd her faith, and thus prepar'd her heart
The awful call at length th' Almighty gave:
She heard-resign'd to linger, or depart-
Bow'd her meek head, and sunk into the grave.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNE, OF LOTHERSDALE,
ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS,
Who had suffered a long confinement in the Castle of York, and loss of all his worldly property for conscience' sake.
"SPIRIT, leave thine house of clay;
Lingering Dust, resign thy breath!
Spirit, cast thy chains away;
Dust, be thou dissolved in death!"
Thus thy Guardian Angel spoke,
As he watch'd thy dying bed;
As the bonds of life he broke,
And the ransom'd Captive fled.
"Prisoner, long detain❜d below;
Prisoner, now with freedom blest;
Welcome from a world of woe,
Welcome to a land of rest!"
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