MONTGOMERY S POEMS.

Congeal'd to adamant his frame shall last,
Though empires change, till time and tide be past

On deck, in groups embracing as they died,
Singly, erect, or slumbering side by side,
Behold the crew!—They sail'd, with hope elate,
For eastern Greenland; till, ensnared by fate
In toils that mock'd their utmost strength and skill,
They felt, as by a charm, their ship stand still;
The madness of the wildest gale that blows
Were mercy to that shudder of repose,
When withering horror struck from heart to heart,
The blunt rebound of Death's benumbing dart,
And each, a petrifaction at his post,
Look'd on yon father, and gave up the ghost;
He meekly kneeling, with his hands upraised,
His beard of driven snow, eyes fix'd and glazed,
Alone among the dead shall yet survive,—
The imperishable dead that seem alive ;—
The immortal dead, whose spirits, breaking free,
Bore his last words into eternity,
While with a seraph's zeal, a Christian's love,
Till his tongue fail'd, he spoke of joys above.
Now motionless, amidst the icy air,
He breathes from marble lips unutter'd prayer.
The clouds condensed, with dark, unbroken hue
Of stormy purple, overhang his view,
Save in the west, to which he strains his sight,
One golden streak, that grows intensely bright,
Till thence the emerging sun, with lightning blaze,
Pours the whole quiver of his arrowy rays;
The smitten rocks to instant diamond turn,
And round the expiring saint such visions burn
As if the gates of Paradise were thrown
Wide open to receive his soul;—'tis flown.
The glory vanishes, and over all
Cimmerian Darkness spreads her funeral pall.

Morn shall return, and noon, and eve, and nigh*:
Meet here with interchanging shade and light;

.MONTGOMERY S POEMS

Then seem'd they, in that world of solitude,
The Eve and Adam of a race renew'd.
Brief happiness! too perilous to last;
The moon hath wax'd and waned, and all is past!
Behold the end:—One morn, athwart the wall,
They mark'd the shadow of a reindeer fall,
Bounding in tameless freedom o'er the snow;
The father track'd him, and with fatal bow
Smote down the victim; but before his eyes,
A rabid she-bear pounced upon the prize;
A shaft into the spoiler's flank he sent,
She turn'd in wrath, and limb from limb had rent
The hunter; but his dagger's plunging steel,
With riven bosom, made the monster reel:
Unvanquish'd, both to closer combat flew,
Assailants each, till each the other slew;
Mingling their blood from mutual wounds, they lay
Stretch'd on the carcase of their antler'd prey.

Meanwhile his partner waits, her heart at rest,
No burthen but her infant on her breast:
With him she slumbers, or with him she plays,
And tells him all her dreams of future days;
Asks him a thousand questions, feigns replies,
And reads whate'er she wishes in his eyes.
Red evening comes; no husband's shadow falls,
Where fell the reindeer's o'er the latticed walls.
'Tis night; no footstep sounds towards her door;
The day returns,—but he returns no more.
In frenzy forth she sallies; and with cries,
To which no voice except her own replies
In frightful echoes, starting all around,
Where human voice again shall never sound,
She seeks him, finds him not; some angel-guide
In mercy turns her from the corpse aside;
Perhaps his own freed spirit, lingering near,
Who waits to waft her to a happier sphere,
But leads her first, at evening, to their cot,
Where lies the little one, all day forgot:

Imparadised in sleep she finds him there,
Kisses his cheek, and breathes a mother's prayer.
Three days she languishes, nor can she shed
One tear, between the living and the dead;
When her lost spouse comes o'er the widow's thought,
The pangs of memory are to madness wrought;
But when her suckling's eager lips are felt,
Her heart would fain—but oh! it cannot—melt;
At length it breaks, while on her lap he lies,
With baby wonder gazing in her eyes.
Poor orphan! mine is not a hand to trace
Thy little story, last of all thy race!
Not long thy sufferings; cold and colder grown,
The arms that clasp thee chill thy limbs to stone.
'Tis done: from Greenland's coast, the latest sigh
Bore infant innocence beyond the sky.

WRITTEN DURING NINE MONTHS OF CONFINEMENT IN THE
CASTLE OF YORK, IN THE YEARS 1795 AND 1796.

PREFACE.

These Pieces were composed in bitter moments, amid the horrors of a gaol, under the pressure of sickness. They were the transcripts of melancholy feelings,— the warm etfusions of a bleeding heart. The writer amused hit imagination with attiring his sorrows in verse, that, under the romantic appearance of fiction, he might sometimes forget that his misfortunes were real.

The reader may be curious to be informed of the circumstances to which these trifles owe their existence. Suffice it to say, tho writer is very young, and has been very unfortunate. Twice in the course of twelve months he was sentenced to the penalties of fine and imprisonment for imputed offences*—in January 1795, and again in January 1796; the first time—a fine of twenty pounds, and three months' confinement; the second—six months' confinement, and a fine of thirty pounds.

- For Imputed political offences of which he was quite guiltless. (Sei Memoir.)