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(He, cherub-borne, upon the whirlwind rode,
And the red mountain like a furnace glowed :)
Let Sinai tell—but who shall dare recite
His praise, his power, eternal, infinite ?
Awe-struck, I cease; nor bid my strains aspire,
Or serve his altar with unhallowed fire.

ON SLAVERY. O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, My soul is sick with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled, There is no flesh in man's obdurate heartIt does not feel for man. The natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not coloured like his own; and, having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey ! Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast ! Then what is man? And what man, seeing this,

And having human feelings, does not blush,
And hang his head, to think himself a man ?
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home-then why abroad ?
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.
Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through every vein
Of all your empire, that where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

THE BOY.
There's something in a noble boy,

A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,

And unrepressed by sadness,
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay,

That his bright presence thrills me most.

His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall,

His merry laugh like music trill, And I in sadness hear it all,

For, like the wrinkles on my brow,

I scarcely notice such things now, But when, amid the earnest game,

He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name

As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air,
As if some dream were passing there ;-—

'Tis then that on his face I look, His beautiful but thoughtful face,

And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet familiar meanings trace,

Remembering a thousand things

Which passed me on those golden wings, Which time has fettered now,

Things that came o'er me with a thrill,

And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow

A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.

'Tis strange how thoughts upon a child

Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And when his pulse is beating wild,

And life itself is in excess,-
When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardour straining high,

How in his heart will spring

A feeling, whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all ;

And on its silent wing,
How, with the clouds, he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they !

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE HERMIT. Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote And inaccessible by shepherds trode, In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, A hermit lived ; a melancholy man, Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. . Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, Did they report him; the cold earth his bed, Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms. I went to see him, and my heart was touched With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake, And, entering on discourse, such stories told, As made me oft revisit his sad cell : For he had been a soldier in his youth; And fought in famous battles, when the peers Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, Against the usurping infidel displayed The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land. Pleased with my admiration, and the fire His speech struck from me, the old man would shake His years away, and act his young encounters. Then, having showed his wounds, he'd sit him down, And all the live-long day discourse of war. To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf, He cut the figures of the marshalled host : Described the motions and explained the use Of the deep column and the lengthened line, The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm:

For all that Saracen or Christian knew
Of war's vast art was to this hermit known.

Unhappy man!
Returning homewards by Messina's port,
Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won,
A rude and boisterous captain

of the sea
Fastened a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought :
The stranger fell; and with his dying breath
Declared his name and lineage. Mighty Heaven !
The soldier cried, my brother! Oh! my brother !

They exchanged forgiveness,
And happy, in my mind, was he that died;
For many deaths has the survivor suffered.
In the wild desert on a rock he sits,
Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks,
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.
At times, alas! not in his perfect mind,
Holds dialogues with his loved brother's Ghost;
And oft, each night, forsakes his sullen couch
To make sad orisons for him he slew,

LANDING OF THE BRITISH ARMY IN THE

PENINSULA.

It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight!
The billows foamed beneath a thousand oars,
Fast as they land, the red-cross ranks unite,
Legions on legions brightening all the shores.
Then banners rise, and cannon-signal roars,
Then peals the war-like thunder of the drum,
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet flourish pours,
And patriot hopes awake, and doubts are dumb,
For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of Ocean come!
A various host they came,-whose ranks display
Each mode in which the warrior meets the fight,

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