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"Tis not to sit, and con a theme,
Thy rueful phiz behold:
To catch poetic gold.
Whate'er the cynic may pretend,
Is happiness below.
And clear the world of woe.
To bless unseen, unseen descend
Like dew-drops from above.
And fill the lap of love.
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,
Like Egypt's queen of old :
And Cydnus burn’d with gold.
To youth, and industry, and health,
And ev'ry blessing bears :
Autumnal Bouquet of Field-Flowers and Corn.
BY T. PARK, ESQ.
To Flora, gay nymph, and to corn-loving Ceres,
This harvest-home tribute we gratefully twine; On their brows then fast bind it, ye tutelar Lares,
And Winter shall weave a green chaplet for thine.
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,
Ifor the wild growing floret that blossom’d around.
Twine blue-bells with poppies, that outblush'd Aurora,
And king-cups fresh gather'd, while pearly with dew: Then take it, Ceres! and take it, O Flors ! The garland of Nature may grace even you.
THE WAR-SONG OF PRUSSIA*.
Multa dies variique labor mutabilis ævi
Where is now the warrior's breast?
Where is now the heart of flame?
Careless of Prussia's ancient name?
To bathe our red-right hands in blood;
Scorn'd by the generous and the good,
Yes, we will still repel the foe,
Still stem the vile Usurper's sway;
May conquer yet another day!
* Written (alas! too evidently) previous to the fatal battle of Friedland,
Else what remain ?--The galling chain,
The scoff of pride and bitter scorn,
Our freedom lost, our laurels torn,
By our hapless country's call,
By Berlin's insulted King,
Who in their country's cause have shed
Buried in Glory's crimson bed :
Tremble, vile Usurper ! hide
Thy guilty head in dunnest night;
When slave and freeman meet in fight!
Thy locust ranks enhost thee round,
If weary Heav'n permit, shall wound;
TO A TITLED DESTROYER
“ What's property ? dear Swift! you see it alter
Thou ruthless destroyer, whose impious hand
Has levell’d the bowers so belov'd by the Nine, For this deed shall thy name lasting infamy brand,
Shall curses how deep, and how bitter, be thine! When laugh earth and heaven in their glories array'd,
To thy jaundic'd eyes may the landscape still seem Involv'd in a mournful and menacing shade ;
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
roye, Pursued by the laugh and the whisper of scorn.