Which leads to Egypt's ports its tide;
Whose wave with gems and golden ore
Encircling decks each radiant shore;
Or rule amidst Sarmatia's snows,
Where the drear Caspian ocean flows;
Or those barbaric powers, who know
Whence Danube's icy waters flow;
Or wander where, in realms unknown,
The Eastern Seres place their throne:
Be their's the war-the virtuous breast
Of more dominion is possessed
Than all the lords, whom Asia's bound
Doth in its vast embrace surround.
This recks not troops of warriors bold,
Encased in shining steel or gold,
Nor darts, such as on rushing foes
The flying Parthian backwards throws;
This seeks no engine's dreadful power,
To raze to earth the fated tower;
Nor views beneath its vengeful ire
The hostile city wrapt in fire.
He is a king who knows no fear!
He is a king who knows no care!
Let then all those who rashly dare
The shining court's deceitful glare,
Bask in the sunshine of their power,
And live the gew-gaw of the hour;
Mine be repose sedate and sweet,
Beneath some woodland green retreat;
Where the soft thorn with blossoms pale
Flings its wild fragrance to the gale;
And the clear rill, with flow serene,
Gives lasting verdure to the scene:
There let my life's last breath decay,
From broils, from tumults far away;
That when the destined hour shall come,
Which calls my body to the tomb,
I may resign my tranquil span,
A poor, but blest, content old man.
Sad is his fate, though high in fame,
And bending thousands laud his name,
Who yet, when life's frail pleasure flies,
In sorrow and self-ignorance dies..
Manchester, Oct. 12, 1821.
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MISS E.
OH! happy spot, where blest contentment reigns,
Where Nature's every charm is spread around;
With liberal hand from ample stores she deigns
To grace with beauties rare thy favoured ground;
Thy oak-clad hills,' thy woods, thy vales profound,
Thy verdant lawns, and peaceful pastures green,
Health in the breeze,' and joy in every sound;
Here might the sons of care in smiles be seen;
His taste is poor indeed who spurns the sylvan scene!
'Tis sweet to stand upon thy friendly height,
And gaze with rapture on the circling view,
Horizon-bound, and opening to the sight
A scene to Fancy's child for ever new:
Far distant hills with airy summits blue,
The city's hundred spires, the busy mill,
The seats around that seem the eye to woo, The smoke slow curling from the hamlet still, [hill. And tents of gypsy hordes beneath the neighbouring Sweet is the scene! but dearer to my eye
Is yon eat cot half buried in the trees; As modesty the curious gaze will fly,
It shuus the public road and mountain breeze: Delightful spot! by Nature formed to please; There reverend worth and innocence reside.
Full oft my quick and rambling fancy sees, In magic form, the object of my pride,
Whose smile I'll cherish still, though all should hate
Oh, Norwood! sacred haunt of sylvan maids,
How hast thou twined thy beauties round my soul! As oft I've wandered in thy peaceful shades, My heart has felt a joy beyond controul; The scenes of fairy-land have seemed to roll Before my ravished sight in rapid glee,
When from mankind an hour of bliss I've stole,
To spend in converse, innocent and free,
[from me. With her to whom thou owest these lines thou hast
Brunswick Place, City Road, Oct. 6, 1821.
"THE WHEEL IS GOING ROUND."
An ancient king having been overcome in battle, was, according to the custom of the times, led in triumph, fastened to the chariot wheels of the victor. Whilst in this degrading situation, he was observed to look upon the wheel with particular attention; and upon being questioned why he did so? replied, "That, as the wheel went round, he perceived that the andermost spoke rose uppermost in turn." The force of this remark so struck the conqueror, that he ordered his immediate liberation.
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE ANECDOTE ABOVE.
PALE child of misery lend thine ear,
For Hope still breathes a sound;
"T will calm thy breast, 'twill still thy fear-
The wheel is going round.
Perhaps forlorn thou wanderest now,
"Midst tides of sorrow drowned;
But, hark! a sentence clears thy brow-
The wheel is going round.
What though thy kindred should forsake,
And not one friend be found?
The darkened cloud these words will break-
The wheel is going round.
What though with chains of want entwined,
In Penury's fetters bound?
This yields new comfort to thy mind-
The wheel is going round.
Hope bids thee look to yonder sphere
With brightest pleasures crowned,
Then hush that sigh--then dry that tear-
The wheel is going round.
And thou who livest in fortune's train,
The farthest from the ground,
Oh! deem not this a caution vain-
The wheel is going round.
Though now thou sit'st exalted high,
Wise, learned, or renowned,
Yet think, nor let it cause a sigh,
The wheel is going round."
Others have held that seat, and they
Have left to give thee room;
They blazed but for a short-lived day,
Then sunk within the tomb :
The wheel is going round, and you
Must soon be hurried downward too.
22 Sept. 1821.
"WHAT IS FRIENDSHIP BUT A NAME" OH! Time hath rusted all the links
Which looked so bright in Friendship's chain;
And there are wide and bursting chinks,
That he'er shall close nor knit again!
Yet one I fondly thought would bear
The stoutest tug of adverse weather;
But ab! it was an idle care,
The blast hath shivered all together!
Alone, without a star to guide;
Without a rudder, compass, chart;
Abandoned to the rushing tide,
The mainmast cracks, the timbers start.
Impatient of approaching fate,
The frantic seaman lifts his eye,
Expressive of his hopeless state-
Then leaps into Eternity!
A SUMMER EVENING'S REFLECTION.
IT was the peaceful sabbath of the sky:
The clouds were motionless; and the sun's light
Through the blue æther poured its golden tides
Of parting splendour; while round the bleak height
Of the vast rock, whose rude and rifted sides
Flung shadowy bridges o'er the darksome glen,
One hapless solitary bird was seen
Wildly to wheel its sad portentous flight.
As Fancy variously applied the scene,
My thoughts did image forth the hearts of men
In that same sullen rock---myself the bird,
Who in the farewell beam of prosperous day
Doth round their elevated grandeur stray- [play!
But ah no green patch smileth, and no fountains
8 August, 1821.
CHARLES FEIST.
ONE day honest Pat thus his friend did accost, "Jack! I am ruined; my appetite's lost!"[mind it ; "What! lost," returned Jack," then I prythee don't For 'twill sure be the ruin of him who may find it."
THE glow of the eve is resplendently beaming,
O'er the heavenly canopy splendour is streaming,
And deep is the blush of the face of the West;
"Tis the hour when all nature with pleasure is teeming,
All fretted in Grandeur's magnificent vest.
"Tis the hour when the hum of the world is retiring,
And the orb of the day in its glory's expiring,
The emblem how meet of the Christian's rest,
Who, as youth ebbs away, feels sage wisdom inspiring,
And calmly récedes to the shades of the blest.
In season like this, how each bosom dilateth
With Faith's holy hope, for the bliss that awaiteth
The man of true virtue in ages to come!
A bliss whose possession, though sweet, never sateth,
In mansions of glory, the soul's fni ure home!
Whilst musing on man, as this scene I'm surveying,
My thoughts now the soul, now the body obeying,
Entrancement will steal o'er my wonderstruck mind:
And, still as my thoughts thro' this labyrinth are stray-
In heaven alone can they permanence find. [ing,
And oh!! it is sweet to the soul how endearing,
As o'er the rough ocean of life we are steering,
To view in perspective Futurity's glass!
For as morn follows night, with a lustremost cheering,
So the shadows of death from life's slumber shall pass.
August 9, 1821.
Written under the coloured Engravings of the Garden Rose and the Wild Rose.
By J. L. STEVENS, Author of "FANCY'S WREATH."
THOUGH fair, yet only faintly so,
Love's blushing flower transplanted grows;
But, bright in health's delightful glow,
How lovely blooms the mountain rose!
Not all the policy of art
Not all the skill refinement knows-
Can aught of purity impart
To aid thy charms---sweet virgin rose!
Plymouth, September, 1821.
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