That grace my robes, or on my sceptre blaze,
Uriah still, reflected from the stone,
Points at his wounds, and shows me what I've done.
Could all the gold that lies on India's coast,
Could all the gems its num'rous quarries boast,
Bribe peace a moment to this aching heart,
How freely with the glitt'ring store I'd part.
Black, heavy thoughts, ah! what a num'rous train!
I feel your stings unpitied, yet complain.
Thou gallant hero, say, where art thou now?
Gone, gone for ever! sunk beneath my blow!--
Of my uplifted arm, my dire command,
Fell Ammon's sword was wielded by my hand!
When the fierce battle glow'd with hottest rage,
Where all the mighty, arm to arm engage,
Where frightful death his various forms put on,
You met the terror of his dreadful frown.-
As some huge tree, whose tow'ring threats the sky,
While deep in earth its roots embosom'd lie,
Mocks at the warring winds, and proudly dares
The tempest's force, nor once destruction fears:
So, unappall'd, the glorious leader stood,
Though torn with wounds, and cover'd o'er with blood;
O'er hills of slaughter'd foes he makes his way—
His sword, from Ammon, gain'd the doubtful day:
Yet, while aloft the Hebrew standard flies,
And vict'ry shouts to echoing earth and skies,
The lifeless hero, stretch'd upon the shield,
With countless wounds, is borne from off the field.
Once, how he shone amidst the gazing throng,
Who praised his courage as he pass'd along!
On thy firm brow, what beaming splendor shone !
By thy bold arm, how strengthen'd was my throne!
And shall thy murd'rer crown thy head with bays,
And dare thy godlike virtues thus to praise?
From cruel fate, ah! whither shall I run ?——
Capricious lust!-thou hast my soul undone!
Drawn on by impious passion, I pursued
The flying fair, and oft my suit renew'd;
The humble suppliant, and the haughty lord,
By turns put on, no ray of hope afford;—
She heard at length, but with an obdurate ear-
And still Uriah draws the pitying tear.
O happy day! when, blest with Eglah's charms,
I woo'd no other beauty to my arms;
No court's licentious joys did then molest
My peaceful mind, nor haunt my tranquil breast.
A glitt'ring crown! thou poor, fantastic thing! -
What solid satisfaction canst thou bring?
Once, far removed from all the toils of state,
In groves I slept-no guards around me wait:
Oh! how delicious was the calm retreat!——
Sweet groves! with birds and various flowers stored,
Where nature furnish'd out my frugal board;
The pure, unstained spring, my thirst allay'd;
No poison'd draught, in golden cups convey'd,
Was there to dread.-Return, ye happy hours,
Ye verdant shades, kind nature's pleasing bowers-
Inglorious solitude, again return,
And heal the breast with pain and anguish torn.
Oh! sweet content! unknown to pomp and kings,
The humble rest beneath thy downy wings;
The lowly cottage is thy loved retreat-
In vain, thou 'rt courted by the rich and great—
In vain, the miser seeks thee in his gold-
In vain, each day the glitt'ring store is told;
Thou art not there: in vain the ambitious sigh,
And seek the joys that still before them fly:
The merchant's ship all treasures brings but thee—
You from his anxious bosom ever flee:
For thee, the sailor tempts the boist'rous main,
And hopes to find thee in his dear-bought gain:
For thee, the hero mounts his iron car,
And hopes to find thee when return'd from war.
Their hopes are vain.-Who wish with thee to dwell,
Must seek the rural shade, or lonely cell:
The Gods themselves delight in verdant groves,
And shield from harm the innocence they love.→
Witness, the day, my youthful arm withstood
The foaming bear:-the monarch of the wood,
With open jaws appear'd, and crested mien,
But in a moment by my hand was slain:
Safe from their teeth I snatch'd the destined prey,
And bore it harmless in my arms away.-
Witness, the day, Gath's lordly champion came,
With haughty strides, and cursed Jehovah's name;
Though in my hand nor sword nor spear were found,
This vast unwieldly bulk lay stretch'd upon the ground.
Beloved by Heaven, nought had I then to fear-
Twice I escaped from Saul's emitted spear,
By malice thrown; and, free from danger, stand,
Hid in the hollow of th' Almighty's hand;—
His darling then I was; who, mighty God!
Sink now beneath the terrors of thy rod.
Dispel those thick, dark clouds, this boist'rous wind,
That tears the soul, and harrows up the mind;
Oh! let thy mercy, like the solar ray,
Break forth and drive these dismal clouds away;
Oh! send its kind enliv'ning warmth on one,
Who sinks, who dies, beneath thy dreadful frown:
Thus fares the wretch at sea, by tempests tost-
Sands, hurricanes, and rocks, proclaim him lost;
With eager eyes he views the peaceful shore,
And longs to rest where billows cease to roar :—
Of wanton winds and waves I've been the sport-
Oh! when shall I attain the wish'd for port?"
Or might I bear the punishment alone,
Nor hear the lovely infant's piteous moan;-
My sins upon the dying child impress'd,
The dreadful thought forbids my soul to rest.
In mercy, Lord, thy humble suppliant hear-
Oh! give the darling to my ardent prayer!-
Cleanse me from sin-oh! graciously forgive-
Blest with thy love, oh! let thy servant live:
Thy smiles withdrawn, what is the world to me?
My hopes, my joys, are placed alone on thee:
Oh! let thy love, to this desponding heart,
One ray, at least, of heavenly love impart."
WILLIAM MOORE SMITH
Was the eldest son of the Rev. William Smith, D. D. the first Provost of the Philadelphia College. He was born in Philadelphia, on the first of June, 1759, and was educated at the college in that city, where he was graduated with distinction at an early age. On leaving college he studied law, and continued the practice of this profession with honor and profit until the close of the last century, when he received an agency for the settlement of British claims in America, included within the sixth article of Jay's treaty. The adjustment of
his agency obliged him to make a voyage to England in 1803, and on his return to his native country the following year, he retired from business to a country residence near Philadelphia, where he continued to reside until his death, which occurred on the 12th of March, 1821. He was a polished scholar, and retained his classical knowledge until the time of his death. In his retirement he read much, and his mind was literally a storehouse of learning. Possessed of a powerful memory, he was a living index to what had passed and still was passing in the world, and yet the writings of his early days alone entitle him to notice here, as he was not ambitious of literary distinction. In 1785, he published a small volume of poems, which was republished in London the following year. He wrote much on the politics of the times, but these papers have passed into oblivion, with the incidents which gave them birth and interest.
Now ruin lifts her haggard head
And madly staring horror screams!
O'er yonder field bestrew'd with dead,
See, how the lurid lightning gleams!
Lo! 'mid the terrors of the storm,
From yonder black brow'd cloud of night,
The mighty Capac's dreadful form
Bursts forth upon my aching sight!
But ah! what phantoms, fleeting round
Give double horrors to the gloom,
Each pointing to the ghastly wound
That sent him, shroudless to the tomb !
On me they bend the scowling eye;
For me their airy arms they wave!
Oh! stay-nor yet from Zampor fly,
We'll be companions in the grave !~
Dear victims of a tyrant's rage!
They're gone!each shadowy form is fled, Yet soon these hoary locks of age
Shall low as theirs in dust be laid!
Thou faithless steel, that harmless fell
Upon the haughty Spaniard's crest,
Swift to my swelling heart, go tell
How deep thou'st pierced thy master's breast.
But shall curst Spain's destroying son,
With transport smile on Zampor's fate?
No ere the deed of death be done
The tyrant's blood shall glut my hate.
Yon forked flash with friendly glare
Points where his crimson'd banners fly,
Look down, ye forms of fleeting air,
I yet shall triumph ere I die!
He spoke and like a meteor's blaze
Rush'd on th' unguarded Spaniard's lord; Around his head the lightning playsReflected from his brandish'd sword:
"Great Capac nerve the arm of age,
And guide it swift to Garcia's breast, His pangs shall all my pangs assuage, His death shall give my country rest.
Ye powers who thirst for human blood
Receive this victim at your shrine !"
Aghast the circling warriors stood
Nor could prevent the chief's design.
""T is Garcia's crimson stream that flows,
'Tis Zampor hurls him to his fate-
The author of my country's woes
Now sinks the victim of my hate."
From Garcia's breast the steel he drew
And sheathed it deep within his own-
"I come, ye gods of lost Peru,"
He said and died without a groan.
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