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By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks receiv'd the chain;
Crossing in your barks the main;
To the man-degrading mart;
Only by a broken heart-
Till some reason ye shall find
Than the colour of our kind.
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Ere you proudly question ours !
FATHER, who made all the beautiful flowers,
Not the sun, my dear child, but One greater
than he! Father, whose hand form’d the blue tinted sky, Its colour'd clouds and its radiancy? What are those stars we view, shining in air? What power ever keeps them suspended there? Was it man form’d the skies and the glories we see?
-Not man, my dear child, but One greater Father, from whence came our own lovely land, With its rivers and seas, and its mountains so grand; Its tall frowning rocks, and its shell-spangled shore ? Were not these the work of some people of yore?Owe these not their birth to man's own good decree?
than he !
-Not to man, my dear child, but One greater
than he ! From God came the trees, and the flowers, and the
earthTo God do the mountains and seas owe their birth: His glory alone, love, created on high, The sun, moon, and stars, and the beautiful sky: It was He form’d the land, and no people of
Bend thy knee, my sweet child, that God
now adore !
THE BYRON OAK.
[Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an Oak in the garden; and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, he found the Oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ;-hence these lines.] Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the
ground, I hop'd that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish
around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years
On the land of my fathers I rear’d thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can
I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. Oh! hardy thou wert- -even now little care Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds
gently heal: But thou wert not fated affection to share
For who could suppose that a stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;
Ére twice round yon glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy master will teach thee to smile,
When infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds,
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,
And still may thy branches their beauty display. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,
Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine,
Uninjur'd by time, or the rude winter's breath : For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O’er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy While the branches thus gratefully shelter his
grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade: And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread: Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.
And here, will they say, when in life’s glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay; And here must he sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. Byron.
We come to being from the night,
A common vision is the spring;
The lark has sung his carol in the sky;
hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin; The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine; And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 'Mid many a tale, told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguild, « 'Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smil'd!”
And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,