"Tis not to sit, and con a theme, And when the lunar light has spread Whate'er the cynic may pretend, Oh! for a mine of gold to give, To bless unseen, unseen descend For sharper suff'rings than thy own, "Tis thine, O Penury, to groan, Stretch'd on the rack of life. Thy cradled child unconscious sleeps, But woe for her who wakes and weeps, The mother and the wife. O fortune come, and crown my fate, To youth, and industry, and health, INSCRIPTION For an Autumnal Bouquet of Field-Flowers and Corn. BY T. PARK, ESQ. To Flora, gay nymph, and to corn-loving Ceres, Here rye lightly mingles with barley grown sere, And oats that, pale-waving, o'ersilver'd the ground; While each wheat-sheaf was robb'd of its weightiest ear, For the wild growing floret that blossom'd around. Twine blue-bells with poppies, that outblush'd Aurora, THE WAR-SONG OF PRUSSIA*. Multa dies variique labor mutabilis ævi VIRGIL. I. WHERE is now the warrior's breast? Careless of Prussia's ancient name? To bathe our red-right hands in blood; Scorn'd by the generous and the good, II. Yes, we will still repel the foe, Still stem the vile Usurper's sway; The wretch, whom yesterday laid low, May conquer yet another day! Written (alas! too evidently) previous to the fatal battle of Friedland, Else what remain?-The galling chain, Our freedom lost, our laurels torn, And still, ere life its hated load resign, III. By our hapless country's call, Scorn that tortures, smiles that sting! Who in their country's cause have shed By mighty Frederick's soul-inspiring name, IV. Tremble, vile Usurper! hide Thy guilty head in dunnest night; Soon shalt thou feel the fall of pride When slave and freeman meet in fight! Tho' far and near, in front and rear, Thy locust ranks enhost thee round, Some gen'rous dart, thy venom'd heart, If weary Heav'n permit, shall wound; War's iron rule, Death's funeral scream shall cease, And Europe smile secure beneath the plume of peace! SOBRINO. TO A TITLED DESTROYER. "What's property? dear Swift! you see it alter The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year. Who cries," My father's damn'd, and all's my own." POPE. THOU ruthless destroyer, whose impious hand When laugh earth and heaven in their glories array'd, Nor of joy, nor of hope, feel thy bosom a gleam. In thine ear, clos'd for ever to choirs of the grove, May the ominous bird croak from evening 'till morn; In crowds, shunn'd like pestilence, lone may'st thou rove, Pursued by the laugh and the whisper of scorn. |