Whose worth conceal'd thy fond Creator mourn'd,
And gently to its parent shell return'd.
And thou too, Cooke! and all whose hands of yore
Round earth's wide bounds your country's glories bore,
And still, where-e'er your red cross flag unfurl'd,
Strove to enlighten, humanize the world;
Forbid that e'er your noble zeal expire;
In British breasts still nurse a kindred fire:
* With kindred virtue teach them to display
To darkling Afric intellectual day-
Oh let that star that still so pure, so mild,
Has on this isle with heavenly radiance smil'd,
Break Afric's glooms of cheerless, rayless night,
And spread its gentle beams of gospel light!
No more the Negro then shall suppliant cry,
To the rude god of fond idolatry.
No more his savage tombs and shrines around,
The captive's gore shall flood the smoking ground.
But christian lore shall check the chief's career-
Win from his lifted hand the thirsting spear,
Teach his stern heart to sooth the captive's pain,
Nor forge with brother's hand, a brother's chain-
And oft as laid beneath their cooling trees
The swarthy bands inhale their native breeze,
*If ever a successful issue is put to our present contest, and from our own security, we may be enabled to attend to the misfortunes of other nations, nothing could be more an honour to the English nation, than an attempt to extend Christianity in Africa, in the manner that Sir William Jones attempted it in the East. As great advantages might then be received from a liberal commerce with the negroes, as from their present compelled labours, and in the warm soil of Africa, almost all the valuable productions of the Eastern and Western Indies might be brought to native perfection, See Parke, Pag. 312.
See numerous hords in peaceful lowings graze
Where Niger's stream 'midst new rais'd culture strays;
Transplanted fruitage bloom amidst a wild
Where never fruit before, or flow'ret smil'd;
Either rich India rise in glowing bloom,
Bright as at home, and shed as rich perfume,
Where marshy fens among, and brakes, of yore
The wild Hyenas lapp'd the trav'ller's gore-
Their hearts shall turn to those who cross'd the sea
To save the sable sons of Misery:
For them, to heaven, their new-taught pray'rs arise,
And call down blessings on them from the skies-
'Midst shouts of joy adown old Niger's tide,
Britannia's flag shall wave in flowing pride-
Proud as the sun, that, when his dawning ray
Spreads o'er the clouds the hues of coming day,
Tinges the banks the expanded Ganges laves,
And sparkles brilliant in his dancing waves-
-Hears prostrate nations hail his bright career, His the sole sov'reign of his mighty sphere.
NED, in a long and sleepy poem,
Attempts to run my writings down;
And I, my just revenge to show him,
His verses read to half the town.
Occasioned by reading an Ode to Bishop Percy, on the Reliques of Ancient Poetry.
WHEN Conway's surge with horrid roar,
Had whelm'd the Druids tresses hoar,
Hovering o'er the haunted flood,
The Genius of the sacred wood,
High the dripping mantle shook,
And floating lyre uplifted took,
Where bards immortal, mid the tuneful spheres,
Chaunt to Heroic shades the songs of elder years.
"Mantle, erst by Merlin given,
"Dipt in rainbow tints of Heaven,
"Fraught with many a wizard spell,
"Mortal language dare not tell ;
Spells that human hearts controul, "Awe the sense and melt the soul;
"At Terror's voice bid Health's bright rubies fly, "Or gem with pearls divine soft Pity's angel eye.
"Relic of the awful Seer, "Wondrous key of Joy and Fear; "Who can boast a kindred spirit? "Who thy magic power inherit ? "What child of Earth shall now aspire "To touch the doom-denouncing lyre?" The Minstrel Choir in mute attention hung, Whilst to his airy harp thus Taliessin sung:
"Bear them from that fatal shore,
"(Mona's melody is o'er)
"To the Nymph of fairy song,
"Caledonia's groves among,
"Bid her build the lofty rhyme;
"Bid her raise the hymn sublime,
"Fit for the King of Bards in days of yore; "Fit for the mighty Lord of legendary lore."
Worthy of the high command,
Hark! the Virgin's potent hand
Strikes the chords of pain and pleasure,
In a sweetly-varied measure;
She with Pythic ardour firing,
Felt within the God inspiring;
And whilst the shell resounded PERCY's praise,
We heard the heaven-born strains of Arthur's golden
BY LOCKHART MUIRHEAD, A. M.
WEEP not, modest child of Spring-
Lone, unpitied in the dell
Snatch the joys the Graces bring-
Bid thy tufted haunts farewell.
'Reft of kindred, wherefore stay?
Other flowrets paint the vale,
Vernal Zephyrs fade away,
Sultry vapours taint the gale.
Come, my Emma's breast adorn!
Give to her thy blossom rare; Emma sooths the fair forlornEmma cheers the child of care.
Wanton now around thy tomb-
Catch the smile, and catch the sigh-
Rescued from the grove of gloom.
Happy Primrose, live-and-die.
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