Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green,

Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while—
Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form,
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm;
There should my hand no stinted boon assign

To wretched hearts with sorrows such as mine;-
That generous wish can soothe unpitied care,
And Hope half mingles with the poor man's pray'r.

Hope! when I mourn, with sympathising mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind,

Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see

The boundless fields of rapture yet to be;

I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan,
And learn the future by the past of man.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime; Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore. On Erie's banks, where tygers steal along, And the dread Indian chants a dismal song, Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, And bathe in brains the murd'rous tomahawk; There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, And shepherds dance at Summer's op'ning day; Each wand'ring genius of the lonely glen

Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men;

And silence watch, on woodland heights around,
The village curfew, as it tolls profound.

In Lybian groves, where damned rites are done, That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, Truth shall arrest the murd'rous arm profane, Wild Obi flies-the veil is rent in twain.

Where barb'rous hordes on Scythian mountains roam, Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;

Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,

From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines,"
Truth shall pervade th’unfathom'd darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of Despair.-
Hark! the stern Captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd!

E

Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns,

And, as the slave departs, the man returns.

Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceas'd a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile, When leagu'd Oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, Way'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn;

Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!'

Warsaw's last Champion, from her height survey'd, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,

Oh! Heav'n! he cried, my bleeding country save!— Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?—

Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our Country yet remains!

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,

And swear for her to live!-with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd; Firm-pac'd and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low, murm'ring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,—the watchword and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!

From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew: