« ForrigeFortsett »
She 'scaped the murderer's arm.
The British bark Bore her across the ocean. From the west The whirlwind rose, the fire-fraught clouds of Heaven Were mingled with the wave. The shattered bark Sunk at thy feet Bolerium : and the white surge Closed on green Erin's daughter.
Invitingly yon single-storied cot
Peeps o'er the frosted heath. The broad, brown door,
Scaled of its white-wash, is so low that he
Who steps in upright, steps in jeopardy
To smite his forehead. Two projecting walls
Fence in the roomy fire-place. Close by each
Is set an oaken bench, on whose hard sides,
His sore impatience many a lubber loon,
Keen for his meal, has notched. Here, when silently
Coating the green and lozenged panes, thick snow
Bedims the scanty daylight, nestles the snug
Family, delighted up the chimney's shaft,
Illumining the chasm, to trace the spark's
Ascent; or touch with timid finger-tip
The faggot's hissing ooze, and snift the fumes,
I knew an Irishman; to England he
Came every spring a hay-making; and much
Would praise his cabin. By a bog it stood,
And he had store of peats. Without a chimney
Stood the little cabin. Full of warmth and smoke,
It cherished its owner. The smoke he loved,
Loved for the warmth's sake, though it bleared his eyes.
Now when the North-East pinches, I bethink me
Irishman; and think “ how sweet
“ It were to house with him, and pat his cur,
“ And peel potatoes mid his cabin's smoke.”
Extrated from imitative “ Verses on Alexander's Expedition
down the Hydaspes and the Indus, to the Indian Ocean," printed in 1792, but not published.
-Here closed his lips-still spake his glistening eye-
Still Admiration heaved her deep-drawn sigh-
Around the soul-rapt Chief, in crowded rings,
His kindling warriors press-the destined kings
Of mighty states—They catch the Monarch's fire.
Their gestures, quick, the train remote inspire.
From breast to breast triumphal ardours run
And all partake the bliss of Philip's son.
At first low murmurs creep; at length the bands
Ope their glad lips and smite their joyous hands,
Till land and waters pour exulting cries
And pealing shouts assail the Indian skies
-He, from applauding myriads’ loud acclaim,
Accepts the omen of immortal fame,
And feels assuaged, in that enraptured hour,
His burning thirst of glory and of power.
To her scared eye, as Fate's dark leaves disclose
The ghastiy characters of India's woes
Thy parting sail, O King, the pensive Muse
With many a sigh, down Indus' stream pursues
--Large was thy thought, and liberal was thy soul,
Nor stooped thy glance beneath bright Honour's goal;
Beyond the Sage's amplest grasp, thy mind
mbraced the general mass of Humankind :
And spurned, with firm disdain, the barbarous rule
Framed by the founder of the subtle school.*
To agonizing woe and captive fear
Thy pity gave the warm, balsamic tear.
And hark! where HISTORY, mid the dome of Fame,
Awards the tyrant's and the conqueror's shame,
While all the nations mingled round the throne,
Wait on her lips, and catch each awful tone,