Before Thee, Homer's name,

Ere Greece was named, went forth; And, like a word of flame,

Glared Alaric from the North.

Methinks I hear thy voice,

Prophetic, at this hourWhere evil powers rejoice, And worship evil power.

A word of fatal tone,

The blind shall hear and see;

A word of fire unblown

On them shall written be.

Lo! things of earth combine,
To curse the blessed sod!
Bid God his power resign!

And clench their fists at God.

And dreadful art Thou, Lord,

Thy words are dreadful then,

When men make law a sword,

To smite the rights of men!

The dust of patriots dead

Hears then thy stillest tones;

Pale tyrants, waxing red,

Crouch frighted on their thrones;

For wrongs go forth in might,
Like whirlwind on the sea;

When vengeance strikes for right,
What is he, Lord, but Thee?

WRONG not the labouring poor by whom ye live! Wrong not your humble fellow-worms, ye proud! For God will not the poor man's wrongs forgive, But hear his plea, and have his plea allowed.

O be not like the vapours, splendour roll'd,
That, sprung from earth's green breast, usurp the
sky,

Then spread around contagion black and cold,
Till all who mourn the dead prepare to die!

No! imitate the bounteous clouds, that rise,
Freighted with bliss, from river, vale, and plain;
The thankful clouds, that beautify the skies,
Then fill the lap of earth with fruit and grain.

Yes! emulate the mountain and the flood,

That trade in blessings with the mighty deep; Till, sooth'd to peace, and satisfied with good, Man's heart be happy as a child asleep.

LORD! not for vengeance rave the wrong'd,
The withering hopes, the woes prolong'd!
Our cause is just, our Judge divine;
But judgment, God of all! is thine.

We call not on thy foes the doom

That scourged the proud of wretched Rome, Who stole, for few, the lands of all,

To make all life a funeral,

But not in vain thy millions call
On thee, if thou art Lord of all;
And, by thy works, and by thy word,
Hark! millions cry for justice, Lord!

THE UNWRITTEN WORD.

HAST thou not spoken, God,

When wrongs unchain the slave;

And slaves make every sod

A slave's or tyrant's grave?

Dost Thou not speak to all,

When names, made bright by thee, Blaze comet-like, and fall

From heaven to obloquy?

How like a trumpet's blast,

By thee in whirlwind blown,

Thy stern Napoleon past

Through shrieks of states o'erthrown !

What crush'd him, disarray'd,

When perish'd man and steed?

Thy outraged laws of trade!

They crush'd him, like a weed!

A voice of many sighs,

Woe's still small voice of doom,

Whisper'd

and seas and skies

Sang, "Lo, the Island-Tomb!"

For hosts, of many tongues,

That voice array'd in might;

A universe of wrongs

Arm'd wrongers for the right.

But cursed by battles won,

What learn'd they, triumph-taught?

That victory, self-undone,

Hath lost the fight unfought.

Napoleon could not shake
What pigmies have o'erthrown!
O outraged England, wake!
O Nature, claim thy own!

When shall we hear again

Thy still small whisper, God?
O break the bondman's chain!
Uncurse the tax-plough'd sod!

If still thy name is love,

Be Labour's sons thy care!
And from thy earth remove
The vermin all can spare.

Deaf reptiles! they devour
The honey and the tree,
Root, branches, fruit, and flower;
But not our trust in Thee!

EPITAPH.

FOR A MONUMENT TO MAJOR CARTWRIGHT.

HERE lies the man, for virtues only known,
Who look'd on Truth's fair face, and saw his own:
Therefore, this humble verse attention craves;
For good men's lives are holier than their graves.