Upon whose wither'd, bald, and blighted head, The damps of every passing cloud are shed; From whose bare trunk, now mouldering in decay, Each passing tempest tears some limb away; Whose roots, expos'd beneath th' inclement sky, No more its vital nourishment supply; Th' incumbrance of the soil it falls at last, Th' unheeded victim of some wintry blast.
But though to Him the loss of life be small, What have not they to dread, who mourn His fall? What have not they to dread, who still remain To hear the doleful clink of slavery's chain; To see its low'ring clouds diffus'd around, In one wide waste creation to confound? While all benumb'd in deathlike sleep obey One mighty Master's universal sway; From whose vindictive wrath no power can save, No earthly refuge shelter-but the grave!
E'en Afric's sons, condemn'd in hopeless toil To till, in torrid climes, th' unhealthful soil, Their Patron's fall in dumb despair shall hear, And drop, 'mid bloody sweats, the silent tear : Wearied and spent, while o'er his aching head Their hottest fires meridian sunbeams shed, While ebbing life exudes at every pore, And e'en the lash can now extort no more; The slave for Freedom's friend shall heave a groan, And in His fate awhile forget his own.
And can then hope no distant comfort show? No future bliss irradiate present woe ? Yes-spite of all the cold narcotic lore Which reason spreads where fancy loves to soar; Which holds in philosophic doubts confin'd Each source of sentiment and spring of mind;
What no deep search of science can unfold, Shall modest faith with sacred awe behold; And teach, as through yon boundless space of skies Worlds beyond worlds in endless myriads rise, O'er each presiding emanations reign,
Direct their orbits and their fires maintain; While one Almighty universal soul
Lives in each part and regulates the whole; Bidding in infinite succession flow
Whatever beams above or breathes below; And, still advancing on from sphere to sphere, As intellectual brightness burns more clear, Th' ethereal efflux, till its splendors shine Pure and immortal as its source divine!
Then shall th' uncumber'd Spirit freely rove With those who living, most deserv'd its love; Whose virtues on the same broad basis stood Of private worth employ'd for public good; Who greatly acted, or who wisely thought, And for their Country's freedom toil'd or fought; Who in the glorious cause each effort tried, And justly triumph'd, or unjustly died; Who, to no sect's or party's views confin'd, Sought but the general welfare of mankind. Then in th' eternal mansions of the blest Shall good Timoleon welcome Thee his guest; Approving Doria nod his hoary head, And wipe the tear o'er fallen Genoa shed; While happier Washington shall feel the flame, He living felt, rekindle at thy name;
And, conscious of what few have understood, That to be truly great is to be good,
Look down on despots, who shall blushing own, He best deserv'd, who dar'd despise a throne.
With kindred warmth Epaminondas glows, While Solon's wisdom in soft numbers shows How all the Poet's elegance refin'd All that the Legislator's skill design'd. Around, the intellectual feast to share, Congenial Spirits float in ambient air;
And garlands, gather'd from ambrosial bowers, Entwine with wreaths of amaranthine flowers. Yet sure, triumphant o'er this nether world, Some ruling fiend his banners hath unfurl'd; Who, in those fields, where guiltless thousands bled, And winged death on every bullet sped,
Where wild promiscuous slaughter rag'd around, And purple torrents drench'd the thirsty ground, From civil vengeance join'd to hostile strife, Preserv'd secure its great Oppressor's life; While HE, whose hand had check'd his lawless sway, Untimely falls in premature decay;
Just when distress had made his Country wise, And pressing danger oped its Rulers' eyes; When taught, too late perhaps! by errors past, They listen'd to the voice of truth at last; Obey'd that counsel, which, obey'd when given, Had sooth'd the wrath, and stay'd the bolt of Heaven. O may our late contrition yet prevail,
And Heaven protect, where human succours fail! May that just Power, which claim'd HIM for its own, Propitious still in Freedom's cause be shown;
Preserve its glorious gift, nor take from man
What best remains of his Creator's plan!
Then round THY tomb shall happy myriads raise
The song of gratitude and hymn of praise;
With liberal heart bestow what envious pride
To all THY virtues, living, long denied ;
And, to the memory of THY genius just,
WITH GLORY'S RICHEST SPLENDOURS CROWN THY
Written on the 12th of February, 1797.
THIS is my NATAL DAY! To me, the thought Awakens serious musings, and the sigh
Of soften'd recollection. Heretofore,
This day has ne'er return'd, since manhood shap'd My wayward heart, not finding me the dupe Of feverish day-dreams, and the very slave Of Hope's delicious phantasies. This day Has ne'er return'd, not finding me possest Of HER, whose parent-claims to love were lost In Friendship's mightier attributes! O God! And am I doom'd this very day to know
Those dreams, Hope's phantasies, and my first friend, For ever gone!
-It boots not to complain; Therefore will I, with meek and bowed thoughts, Muse calmly on life's desolated path!
As the way-wanderer, who the onward track Gazes unanxious, tho' the bleak day fade— Tho' the wet winds sweep chilly; and the bark, Of shepherd's watch-dog, from the far-off hill, Die on the gusty blast, if he reflect
That still in scenes remote, a goodly home
Awaits his wearied feet. Yes, so can I Look on life's waste with the composed smile Of resignation (tho' amid that waste, For me no flow'ret blossom) hoping yet To enter the abode where tears are wiped From every eye, where the dear buried friend Shall recognise her long-bewilder'd child! Yet let me, as I travel on, if chance A pilgrim, like myself, cross the drear scene I needs must tread, mingle with his my tears For this bad world-beguile the little hour With what my spirit from its scanty store May spare, in kindliest sort, to entertain One haply not unsuffering ;-then pursue My simple path, nor let the woes or joys Of weak, self-satisfied Humanity,
Break the long sabbath of my centred soul. Enough, if I the vacant moment soothe With social intercourse! "Tis not in man
To fill the aching breast! My God thou know'st How the heart pines, that rests on human love.
THE TRIUMPHAL CAR OF MEDICINE,
Translation of Verses at the End of Dr. Darwin's Zoonomia. He comes!-his brandish'd arms I see from far, And hear the thunder of Hygeia's car:
Phoebus with laurel binds his brow and Fame Sounds from her silver trump his deathless name! Hurrying behind, rides Age, with feeble cry, Eager to tell the sage, that he must die !
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