Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse

Front matter

MORAL PIECES,

IN

Prose and Verse.

A Tribute

MORAL PIECES.

A TRIBUTE.

THERE rose a plant from shades obscure, Of weak and feeble stem, Its shrinking leaves were closely curl'd, And pale its infant gem.

And yet, a benefactress kind The lonely stranger ey'd— And lov'd, and watch'd the humble plant, Which few had lov'd beside.

She hid it from the chilling storms, For storms its bloom opprest, And when the wintry blast arose, She warm'd it in her breast.

With glance of tearful joy, she view'd Its promis'd verdure rise; And oft its drooping buds she rais'd, To point them to the skies.

But as she cherish'd it, a hand Remov'd her hence away; And sick'ning on her lowly tomb The broken flow'ret lay.

It rose—to seek the ray serene, The star of mercy threw; It rose on life's eventful scene, To feel and tremble too.

Yet some have fenc'd it from the blast, And from the wintry air, And deign'd—tho' undeserv'd their smile, To shelter it with care.

Yes—they have cheer'd it:—they have sought To see its branches grow; And have not scorn'd it,—though its stalk Was unadorn'd and low.

And if the fragrance of the skies Should to its buds be given, That fragrance shall to these arise, To virtue, and to heaven.

Contemplation

CONTEMPLATION.

OFT, when the morning draws her dewy veil, Or twilight slumbers on the shrouded dale, Or moon beams tremble thro' the whisp'ring trees, Or float on clouds before the western breeze, Or evening, in her starry mantle bright, Precedes the slow majestic train of night; In that still hour the mind excursive roves, A heavenly voice the listening spirit moves. Then light wing'd forms appear with brow serene, And tempt the soul from this terrestrial scene. Her pow'rs no more can present objects move, And cold is earthly care, and earthly love; Memory hangs pausing o'er the unstain'd page, The prostrate passions all renounce their rage, Fear shrinks no more, and wrath forgets to frown, And fluttering fancy shuts her pinions down; The roving thoughts restrain their wild pursuit, Ev'n crested vanity sits meek and mute, And sceptred reason, bowing on her throne, Yields to a Pow'r acknowledged, though unknown, The world allures—but clouds her glories blot; The world may call; the spirit hears her not. A still, small voice arrests th' expanding soul, The full, strong tides of inspiration roll,

A viewless harp responds—soft tones arise, And quick within an answering harp replies; No more the vague and wild ideas float, Charm'd into order by that blended note; But waking genius strives, with fondest care, To woo the magic music from the air; The strong, unmeasured minstrelsey to bind, In harmony by mortal pow'rs confin'd.

God Displayed in his Works

GOD DISPLAYED IN HIS WORKS.

WHO gave thee clothes to shield thy shrinking form? Who gave thee shelter from the wintry storm? Who gave the senseless beasts to be thy food? Spread for thy use the pure and limpid flood? Gave the quick ear to hear,—the mind to know, The eye to sparkle, and the blood to flow? Who gave the day of health—the night of rest, Joy at thy call, and comfort in thy breast? Who deals with kindest care thy chequer'd lot? Whose arm sustains thee tho' thou see'st it not?

Whose watchful eye observes thy secret ways? Who writes the record of thy fleeting days?

Ask of the stream that rolls in torrents by; Ask of the stars that light the darken'd sky; Or of the fields array'd in garments fair; Or of the birds that warble on the air; Or of the mountain lilies wet with dew; Or of the brutes, and they will tell thee who. Then lift thine eye to that unsullied throne, And raise thy heart to Him thy God alone.

The Storm at Midnight

THE STORM AT MIDNIGHT.

ROVING spirit—rushing blast, Whither dost thou speed so fast? Hurling from night's ebon car, The spear of elemental war? Cams't thou from the secret cell, Where the prison'd whirlwinds dwell? Hast thou seen the awful court, Where the armed thunders sport? Where the deafning tempest sings, Where the lightning whets its stings?

Didst thou there obtain thine hour Of wild and temporary pow'r? Gain the strength that wraps thy breast? Win the cloud that forms thy crest? Beg to wield the mighty scourge, To stir the main—and lash the surge, And wake the waves whose white heads rest Lightly on old Ocean's breast?

Speed'st thou now to rouse the gale, That rends the white and shivering sail? Speed'st thou now to break the sleep, Of those that ride the foaming deep? To shriek like ghosts to those that roam, "Thou ne'er shalt view thy distant home."

Then go, thou angry tempest—go, Speed thee on thy task of woe, Traverse earth from pole to pole, Crush the form—but save the soul.

Procrastination

PROCRASTINATION.

"LIVE well to day"—a spirit cries, To day be good—to day be wise;

But something inward seems to tell, Another day will do as well.

"Now is the time the accepted time," Speaks audibly a page sublime; Another creed is heard to say, Wait till a more convenient day.

Enquir'st thou which of these is truth? Which to obey—unwary youth? Go—ask of nature in thy walk. The rose-bud, dying on its stalk, The fading grass—the withering tree, Are emblems of thy fate and thee. Ask of the stream or torrent hoarse, To linger in its wonted course; Ask of the bird to stay its flight, Bid the pale moon prolong her light, And listen to their answering tone, "A future day is not our own."

And is it thine? Oh, spurn the cheat, Resist the smooth—the dire deceit; Lest, while thou dream'st of long delay, Thine hour of action pass away, Thy prospects fade—thy joys be o'er, Thy time of hope return no more.

Ask of the Roman—pale with fear, While judgment thunder'd in his ear,

Who to the warning friend could say "I'll hear thee on a future day;" Ask him if Time confirm'd his claim, Or that good season ever came?

Go, ask of him, whom demons urge To leap this dark world's dizzy verge, Who on his thorny pillow pain'd, Sees no reprieve or pardon gain'd. Oh! ask that dying man the price Of one short hour of thoughtless vice; What would he pay—what treasure give, For one brief season more to live, One hour to spend in anxious care, In duty, penitence, and prayer!

Ask of the grave; a voice replies— "No knowledge, wisdom, or device," Beauty, or strength possess the gloom Where thou shalt find thy narrow home.

Delay no longer; lest thy breath Should quiver in the sigh of death; But inward turn thy thoughtful view, And what thy spirit dictates—do.

The Giving of the Bible to the Esquimaux

THE GIVING OF THE BIBLE TO THE ESQUIMAUX.

ROUND that wide bay whose waters sweep, With slow—sad current, to the deep, Hoarse billows beat the rugged shore, Of cold and dismal Labrador.

There as the lonely sailor keeps His night-watch o'er those awful deeps, Sighs for his long deserted home And hails the slowly rising moon, Lo! icy cliffs of fearful size Flash death before his startled eyes, Cleave his frail bark with thund'ring crash, As lightnings rend the lofty ash. His frantic shrieks of thrilling pain Rouse from their beds the helpless train, Who soon shall sleep nor wake again. Cold to the raft their limbs congeal, Their icy hearts forget to feel, Dim close their eyes in silent sleep On their last couch—the northern deep.

Perchance upon the flinty beach, Their dry, unburied bones may bleach,

Where desarts stretch in trackless snow, And broad lakes rise that never flow, And rocks of frost, with frightful ledge, Hang sparkling o'er the water's edge.

There scarce the sun reluctant throws A faint beam o'er the polar snows; But wakes to speed his glowing car, And shuns the icy coast from far; Pale float his locks on frosted skies, As in the waste the torch light dies. There life's frail lamp with livid ray Burns coldly in its cell of clay, And lights a weak and dwindled race, Devoid of science, wit or grace. For them no spring, with gentle care, Paints the young bud and scents the air; Nor autumn bids the loaded stem Scatter its fruitage fair for them. No storied page, or learned strife, Or arts that lend delight to life, Or lighted dome, or festive song, Shed lustre o'er their winter long. But wrapt in skins, by long pursuit Torn rudely, from the slaughter'd brute, Close throng'd in hidden vaults they rest, Within the drear earths' mouldering breast, Hear the wild storm above them pour, Or sunk in sleep forget its roar.

The long dark night, with heavy sway, Hangs frowning o'er their homes of clay; The twilight dim—the infant moon, The pale sad stars that break the gloom Glance coldly on their living tomb.

Ah! what can cheer that lonely spot, Or bind the sufferer to his lot? The hand that spread those frigid skies, And gave the polar star to rise, The hand that stretch'd that frozen plain, And shew'd to man his drear domain, Gave, to enhance the scanty store, An humble mind that ask'd no more.

And yet a better boon than this In later times he gave, A warning voice, a call to bliss, A hope beyond the grave; A page whose lustre shone to bless The lone retreat of wretchedness.

He reads, he weeps, his prayers arise To Him who hears a sinner's cries. Sounds soft as music seem to roll, Strong light is kindled in his soul, While deep repentance, earnest prayer, And grateful love are rising there; And tears stand trembling in his eye That for his sins, his Lord should die.

Now when the storm more feebly blows, And cold plants creep through wasted snows, When summer lifts her fleeting wings, With ardour to his task he springs, Blesses the hand that gilds the scene, And kindly spreads the sky serene.

Nor wintry storms to him are drear, Though hoarse they thunder in his ear, Who in his humble cell at rest Feels peace divine inspire his breast; And sees fair hope in roseate bloom Descend to share his clay built room.

Thus to his silent grave he goes, And meekly sinks to long repose, In firm belief at last to hear The strong Archangel rend the sphere, The trump proclaim the day of doom, A hand break up his ice-bound tomb, And bear him where no pain shall come, No winter shroud the scene with gloom, No stream congeal, no tempest rise, No gloomy cell or darken'd skies, No withering plant, no flinty soil, Or pining want, or fruitless toil, No lamp emit a glimmering ray, No setting sun forsake the day; But light shall beam before unknown From Him who sits upon the throne,

And joy, and peace, and love shall cheer The son of wintry realms severe, Who, ransom'd by his Saviour's blood, Cleans'd in that fountain's healing flood, Still meek and uncomplaining trod, And found a mansion with his God.

Death of an Invalid

DEATH OF AN INVALID.

HOW oft, reviving Invalid, would'st thou, When vernal plants diffus'd their blossoms fair, Salute the opening scene with cheerful brow, And hail the genial freshness of the air.

How oft would'st thou the passing hour beguile, Though health refus'd to flush thy cheek again, Oh, I shall miss thy custom'd morning smile, Though pale beneath the shaft of lingering pain.

Placid and gentle ev'n in life's decline, Though no fair hand thy lonely path did strew, Well pleas'd to see the joys of youth, though thine, Chill'd by the hand of age, were faint and few.

Buried and stiff, awhile thy form must rest, The cold, damp earth thy dream of life must blot. Thus all, like thee, shall sink on Natures breast, Like thee be mourn'd a moment—then forgot.

On the Dove’s Leaving the Ark

ON THE DOVE'S LEAVING THE ARK.

STILL did an unseen Being guide The lonely vessel o'er the tide, And still, with steady prow, it braves The fury of the foaming waves. While fierce the deluge pours its stream, The thunders roll—the meteors gleam, When Ocean's mighty cisterns broke, And earth like a rent cottage shook, And slowly as its axle turn'd, The wat'ry planet mov'd and mourn'd; Though trembling at the tempest's ire, Or scorching in the lightning's fire, While holding in her firm embrace The remnant of a wasted race, Still o'er the waves the wandering ark Roam'd like some lone, deserted bark.

But now the storm has hush'd its ire, The warring elements retire; And from his curtains, dusk and dun Look'd forth, once more, th' astonish'd sun.

What saw he there? Young Nature's face With smiles, and joy, and beauty fair? No! not one feature could he trace To tell him life was ever there; Save when that little bark was seen To shew him where her pride had been.

But now from that secure abode A winged stranger went, And from the casement open'd wide A joyful flight she bent; High mounting seem'd to seek the sky With forward breast, and sparkling eye, Like captive set at liberty.

So went the dove on errand kind, To seek a mansion for mankind, Tho' scarce her meek eye dar'd to trace The horrors of that dreadful place.

The waves with white and curling head Swept above the silent dead, The heaving billows' dashing surge Hoarsely swell'd the hollow dirge;

The heavy weight of waters prest The mighty monarch's mouldering breast, The giant chief, the sceptred hand, The lip that pour'd the loud command; The blooming cheek—the sparkling eye, Now shrouded in the sea-weed lie.

But still the pensive stranger spread Her white wing o'er that Ocean dread, And oft her anxious eye she cast Across that dark and shoreless waste. For evening clad the skies in gloom, And warn'd her of her distant home. The stars that gemm'd the brow of night Glanc'd coldly on her wavering flight, In tears, the moon with trembling gleam Withdrew her faint and faded beam, And o'er that vast and silent grave Was spread the dark and boundless wave. With beating heart, and anxious ear, She strove some earthly sound to hear, In vain—no earthly sound was near. It seem'd the world's eternal sleep Had settled o'er that gloomy deep, Nor slightest breath her bosom cheer'd. Her own soft wings alone she heard.

But still that fearful dove preserv'd, With unabating care,

The olive leaf—the type of peace All fragrant, fresh, and fair.

With pain her weary wing she stretch'd Over the billows wide, And oft her panting bosom dropp'd Upon the briny tide.

The image of her absent mate, That cheer'd her as she strove with fate, Grew darker on her eye; It seem'd as if she heard him mourn, For one who never must return, In broken minstrelsey.

Yet ere her pinions ceas'd their flight, Or clos'd her eye in endless night, A hand the weary wanderer prest And drew her to the ark of rest. Oh! welcome to thy peaceful home, No more o'er that wild waste to roam.

When from this cell of pain and woe, Like that weak dove my soul shall go, And trembling still her flight shall urge, Along this dark world's doubtful verge O'er the cold flood, and foaming surge, Then may the shrinking stranger spy A pierc'd hand stretching from the sky,

Then hear a voice in accents blest, "Return—return unto thy rest," Long prison'd in a wayward clime, Long wounded with the thorns of time; Long chill'd by the wild storms that pour Around that dark, deceitful shore, Enter—where thorns shall wound and tempests rage no more.

The Susceptible Mind

THE SUSCEPTIBLE MIND.

HAST thou seen the Mimosa within its soft cell, All shrinking and suffering stand, And draw in its tendrils, and fold its young leaves, From the touch of the tenderest hand?

Hast thou seen the young Aspen that trembles and sighs, On the breath of the lingering wind? Oh! these are but emblems, imperfect and faint, Of the shrinking and sensitive mind.

Gratitude

GRATITUDE.

LINES WRITTEN ON PLANTING SLIPS OF GERANIUM AND CONSTANCY NEAR THE GRAVE OF A VENERABLE FRIEND.

LITTLE plant of slender form, Fair, and shrinking from the storm, Lift thou here thine infant head, Bloom in this uncultur'd bed. Thou, of firmer spirit too, Stronger texture, deeper hue, Dreading not the winds that cast Cold snows o'er the frozen waste, Rise, and shield it from the blast.

Shrink not from the awful shade Where the bones of men are laid; Short like thine their transient date, Keen has been the scythe of fate. Forth like plants in glory drest They came upon the green earth's breast, Sent forth their roots to reach the stream, Their buds to meet the rising beam, They drank the morning's balmy breath, And sunk at eve in withering death.

Rest here, meek plants, for few intrude To trouble this deep solitude; But should the giddy footstep tread Upon the ashes of the dead, Still let the hand of rashness spare These little plants of love to tear, Since fond affection with a tear, Has plac'd them for an offering here. Adorn the grave of her who sleeps Unconscious, while remembrance weeps, Though ever, ever did she feel, And mourn those pangs she could not heal.

Sev'n times the sun with swift career, Has mark'd the circle of the year, Since first she prest her lowly bier; And sev'n times, sorrowing have I come, Alone, and wandering through the gloom, To pour my lays upon her tomb: And I have sigh'd to see her bed With brambles, and with thorns o'erspread,

For surely round her place of rest, I should not let the coarse weed twine, Who so the couch of pain has blest, The path of want so freely drest, And scatter'd such perfumes on mine. It is not meet that she should be Forgotten or unblest by me.

Ye plants, that in your hallow'd beds, Like strangers, lift your trembling heads, Drink the pure dew that evening sheds, And meet the morning's earliest ray, And catch the sun-beams as they play; And when your buds are moist with rain, Oh shed those drops in tears again; And if the blast that sweeps the heath, Too rudely o'er your leaves should breathe, Then sigh for her; and when you bloom Scatter your fragrance on her tomb.

But should you, smit with terror, cast Your infant foliage on the blast, Or faint beneath the vertic heat, Or shrink when wintry tempests beat, There is a plant of constant bloom, And it shall deck this lowly tomb, Not blanch'd with frost, or drown'd with rain, Or by the breath of winter slain; Or by the sweeping gale annoy'd, Or by the giddy hand destroy'd, But every morn its buds renew'd, Are by the drops of evening dew'd This is the plant of Gratitude.

The Tear

THE TEAR.

WHEN gentle pity moves the breast, And claims for others' woes the sigh, Or mild commiseration leads To kinder deeds of charity, Or the quick, feeling heart laments The woes of those it holds most dear, How graceful on the cheek is seen, The pure and sympathetic tear.

Or when the page of life is dark, And fled is every earthly trust, When no kind comforter is near, And the sad soul is in the dust, Or when the bursting heart laments O'er lost affection's silent bier; At once to mark and sooth the grief There flows the sorrow-starting tear.

There is indeed a grief that scorns The channel of a watery eye, But then it breaks the thread of life, Or heats the brain to agony. And Oh! preserve the friends I love, From feeling such a pang severe, And give them in their hour of woe The secret solace of a tear.

Among the boasted joys of youth, Fair friendship's form has met my view, And fondly I retun'd her smile, And still believ'd her promise true: Yet I have felt, but ask me not, What thus has chang'd my prospect drear, And what has taught me so to prize The treasure of a silent tear.

Life

LIFE.

LIFE is like a painted dream, Like the rapid summer stream, Like the flashing meteor's ray, Like the shortest winter's day, Like the fitful breeze that sighs, Like the wavering flame that dies, Darting—dazzling on the eye, Fading in Eternity.

Our Country

OUR COUNTRY.

REFLECTIONS ON THE MORNING OF THE ANNIVERSARY OF OUR INDEPENDENCE, JULY 4, 1814.

HENCE—ye rude sounds, that wake me from my sleep, And fright away my dreams, peaceful and pure. I shudder at the cannon's deafning roar, The martial echo, and the shout of joy Where joy is not. For say—can joy be there Where honour and the blissful time of peace Are parted names? And you, ye peaceful bells, That call the meek soul to the house of prayer, Why with your hallow'd voices will ye swell This morning tumult? Oh, that ye would leave Me to my slumbers; better 'twere to dream Of weariness and woe, to scale the cliff Snow crown'd and dizzy, see the foe approach, And when you spring to motion find the limbs Stiff—and the tongue enchain'd; or dare the flood Upon some broken bridge—Ah! better far To suffer for an hour, and rise in peace, Than to muse waking on disastrous war And glory lost. To wake, alas, and think That honour once was ours, and find it not, Is but to wake to pain. To see the wounds

Our bleeding country bears, and then to find No balm in Gilead—no physician there, Is more than torture. Hence! away, ye sounds Of revelry and mirth; your tones are harsh, Your melody discordant; for the heart Responds not to them. Ye, that joy so much, Look to the heights of Queenston; see the plains Where bleach the bones of valour; hear the voice Of treachery false-hearted; hear the tones Of jarring counsels; hear the widow's wail! Look where the troubled skies are red, with light Of flaming villages—and meteors wild Glare o'er the darken'd concave!

Who are these, That from their cold and humid beds arise? The chiefs of other days. They fought, they bled, When war was righteous, and they slept in peace. Dark on their brows, a frown indignant sits, And hollow voices on the midnight blast Tell of disgrace and death.—But do you say These are the visions of a fearful mind? And you are still for war? Then sound the charge, Urge on the combat—bid the battle rage— The victim bleed—the lonely orphan mourn. If deeds like these delight you, take your fill, And shout, and triumph, in the groans of pain. Since war you love, then arm you for the fight, Bind on the shield, and grasp the sword, and throw

A stronger fence around the endanger'd home Of those you love. And since for war you call, Prepare for war; and train your infant sons To deeds of daring; let no voice of peace Or mercy reach them, lest it enervate Souls given to war; but let the tale of blood Sooth them to slumber, and the trumpet's clang Break up their cradle dream. Since war you will, Then arm you for the deeds and woes of war; Stand firm and stedfast; for your Country looks That those who urge her on so mad a course, Should not desert her in her day of need.

But let the Christian place a stronger trust In Him the God of Might, who sits serene Ruling the tumults of this jarring world, And marking for himself the righteous soul, Who, whether prison'd in a cell of pain, Or driven to fields of blood, or tost on waves Dark and tempestuous, at length shall rise With rapture to that calm and pure abode, Where war, and woe, and error cannot come.

Election

ELECTION.

ON THE MEETING OF THE FREEMEN TO ELECT THEIR REPRESENTATIVES, SEPT. 19th, 1814.

I SEEM to hear a distant voice Thus feebly and imploring say, "My sons—supporters of my laws, Arouse ye at my call to day."

Is this my Country? She whose tone Was once so strong, so bold, so just; Now like a captive sad and lone, Why sighs she faintly from the dust?

Ask not: I cannot answer why; Turn from me, I would seek to mourn: But cast not thine indignant eye On yonder banner stain'd and torn.

Its hue was once like mountain snows, Which no rude foot had ever prest; And like the azure tint that glows, When summer suns the skies invest.

Now faded, dark, and foul with stains, Defac'd with blood, and soil'd with clay, A remnant round the staff remains, Oh! save it, ere 'tis rent away.

And ask not why that sword is dyed In carnage reeking to the hilt? The stains are dark that mark its side, But redden with the hue of guilt,

Yet Oh! the land where saints have pray'd, And holy men, and heroes trod, Though for a season dark with shade, Is not forsaken of its God.

I trust some beam of hope will rise, To cheer this dim and troubled spot; Some star of mercy light the skies, Though now its lustre glimmers not.

Then if one plant of peace be left, One stream that still with freedom runs, One branch not yet of bloom bereft, Oh, save it for your infant sons.

Like diamond be the shield you wear, Which no rash stain of blood shall dim; Lift to your God the eye of prayer, And firmly fix your trust in Him.

On the Character of Commodore Macdonough

ON THE CHARACTER OF COMMODORE MACDONOUGH.

THE scene of death is past; the cannon's roar Dies in faint echoes on the distant wave. The Christian and the hero stands alone Encircled by the slain. No flush of joy, Or ray of triumph gilds his thoughtful brow; For though his heart ascends in grateful praise To Him who heard his prayer, it sighs with pain, Lamenting o'er the woe his hand has wrought. That bosom, which amidst the battle's rage, Was calm and tranquil, feels the life-blood creep Chill through its channels, and that manly cheek Which kept its hue unblanch'd, when shrieks of death And agony arose, is pale, and sad, And wet with bitter tears for brethren lost. To them he turns his eye, but meets no glance Of answering friendship. On the deck they sleep Pale, ghastly, silent: while the purple stream Flows slowly ebbing, from their bosoms cold. One short hour since, he saw them full of life, And strength, and courage; now the northern blast Sighs as it passes o'er them—whispering low, "Behold the end of man!"

Nor yet for friends alone, the victor sighs, The noble heart may mourn a fallen foe, And do no wrong to honour; may revere His virtues, and lament, that cruel fate Bade those to meet so stern, who would have joy'd To join in friendship's pure and sacred bands.

He fought not for the vain applause of man, To light the flame of war in distant lands, Or carry fire, and sword, and woe, and death, Among the innocent; but nerv'd his arm, And steel'd his ardent heart, to meet the sword Drawn on his native land, and urg'd to blood, By provocation strange, and the blind wrath Of erring man. He saw a martial host Press, with invading step, her vallies green, Pour o'er her placid lakes the storm of war; Saw her smooth waters darkened with the shade Of crowding fleets; he saw the smoke arise In heavy volumes, from those splendid domes, Where legislation held her awful sway. He felt her sad disgrace, and heard a voice, Deep ton'd and piercing, call the brave to arms; His was the heart to answer, and he rose, With confidence in heaven, and soul prepared. He stood the shock, and from the furnace flame Came forth like gold. And if this scene of woe Is still to last, may many heroes rise, Thus bright with rays, whose source is from within,

And clad in virtue's arms. The temper'd sword, long bath'd in blood, may break; The shield may be destroy'd; the well aim'd dart Err in its course; the warrior's eye grow dim; But the firm soul, whose trust is plac'd above, Shrinks not; tho' loud that last, dread trump should sound, Whose warning voice shall rend the solid earth, And give her glory to the whelming flame.

The Conflagration at Washington

THE CONFLAGRATION AT WASHINGTON.

WHAT sounds are these, that on the hollow blast Of startled midnight reach the list'ning ear? They seem like shouts of conquest, join'd with shrieks Of mad despair, and the confusion wild Of those that fear or fly. And see the flames In spiry columns burst thro' wreaths of smoke Redd'ning the brow of night. O scene of woe! That pile superb, whose lofty dome arose

With pomp and pride, aspiring to the skies, Whose spacious halls once shone, with all that art Or wealth could give, to dazzle and adorn, A blazing pyramid of fire is seen. Now its last ray illumes the glowing heavens, Darts, sickens, and expires. What ruthless hand Could spread the flames of vengeance, thus to blast, Destroy, and desolate. Embers conceal'd Of hatred and disunion, cherish'd long By treachery's secret breath, and madly fir'd By the wild torch of rashness, sprung to life.

Eternal Justice saw, and was incens'd; And suffer'd them to rage; and lo! the flame Has caught our fairest domes; it burns—it spreads, And who shall quench it? Or with pow'rless strain, Or hand so weak as mine, shall dare to paint The horrors of that scene? The costly pile Sinking in sheets of fire, and clouds of smoke; The haste of flight, the agony of fear; Pale apprehension, shuddering regret, And misery, and tears? Ah! who shall bear These shameful tidings, to our distant foes, Nor shrink with anguish at his Country's wound? Who, to the nations of the earth, shall tell Her infamy, who once with noble front Rank'd high among them? Who of all her sons Can bear to gaze upon her eye, and say, "Thy beauty is destroy'd, thy strength is slain?" And when in future days, with downcast eyes,