Where Britain's energetic tongue
Is heard in East or Western Ind,
Or Shakespeare's verse, or Milton's song,
Have fancy waked or taste refined,
Beneath the sun's last lingering ray,
Or where he first pours forth the day;
From where Canadian wastes of snow,
Sullen in wint'ry guise appear,
To where the South, with ardent glow,
Decks with her golden fruits the year,
Columbia's sons that name revere,
To virtue and to wisdom dear.
Even hostile France, averse no more
To merit's just and powerful claim,
In healing art and classic lore,
Inscribes the Scottish sage's name
Amongst her sons, whose fair renown
Their country's letter'd honours crown.
Yet not the wealth his spirit scorn'd,
Not all the wreathes his genius won,
Not all who praised, nor all who mourn'd,
Avail when life's short day is done :
To heartfelt virtues prized by Heaven,
The unfading amaranth is given.
His dear-loved country heirs that fame,
That long her classic page shall grace,
His offspring, too, may boast the name,
That sheds a radiance o'er his race;
But 'tis his goodness spreads a bloom,
And scatters fragrance round his tomb.
[The following is a pretty correct version of one of the numerous poems on the Death of Napoleon, at present in circulation in Paris. It is a curious proof of the fond and devoted attachment with which his memory is still cherished by his fol
NOBLE spirit, hast thou fled !
Is thy glorious journey sped,
Thy days of brightness numbered,—
Soul of dread sublimity!
On the Death of his Dog, at Newstead Abbey.
are deposited the Remains of one,
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
and all the Virtues of Man, without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning
flattery if inscribed over human ashes,
is but a just tribute to the memory of
BOATSWAIN, A DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland, May, 1803,
and died at Newstead, Nov. 18, 1808.
WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rest below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend ;
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in Heaven the soul he held on earth.
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven;
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit,
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on, it honours none you wish to mourn;
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise,
I never knew but one-and here he lies.
TRIUMPHANT arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
Still seem as to my chilhood's sight,
A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dream of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When science from creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth To watch the sacred sign?
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang,
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first Poet sang.
Nor ever shall the muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme.
|