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On India's long-expecting strand
Their sails were never furl'd;
Never on known or friendly land,

By storms their keel was hurl'd;
Their native soil no more they trod,
They rest beneath no hallow'd sod;
Throughout the living world,
This sole memorial of their lot


they were, and they are not.


The spirit of the Cape pursued
Their long and toilsome way;

At length, in ocean-solitude,

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"Havoc!" the shipwreck-demon cried,
Loosed all his tempests on the tide,
Gave all his lightnings play;
The abyss recoil'd before the blast,
Firm stood the seamen till the last.

Like shooting stars, athwart the gloom
The merchant-sails were sped ;

Yet oft, before its midnight doom,

They mark'd the high mast-head

Of that devoted vessel, tost

By winds and floods, now seen, now lost;
While every gun-fire spread

The Cape of Good Hope, formerly called the Cape of Storms. See Camoens' Lusiad, book v.

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A dimmer flash, a fainter roar;

At length they saw, they heard no more.

There are to whom that ship was dear,
For love and kindred's sake;
When these the voice of Rumor hear,
Their inmost heart shall quake,

Shall doubt, and fear, and wish, and grieve,
Believe, and long to unbelieve,

But never cease to ache;

Still doom'd, in sad suspense, to bear

The Hope that keeps alive Despair.


He sought his sire from shore to shore, He sought him day by day;

The prow he track'd was seen no more,
Breasting the ocean-spray;

Yet, as the winds his voyage sped,
He sail'd above his father's head,
Unconscious where it lay,

Deep, deep beneath the rolling main;
- He sought his sire; he sought in vain.

Son of the brave! no longer weep;
Still with affection true,
Along the wild disastrous deep,
Thy father's course pursue;
Full in his wake of glory steer,
His spirit prompts thy bold career,

His compass guides thee through ;
So, while thy thunders awe the sea,
Britain shall find thy sire in thee.

M. S.



Who corresponded with the Author under this signature, on the first publication of his Poems, in 1806, but died soon after; when her real name and merits were disclosed to him by one of her surviving friends.

My Song of Sorrow reach'd her ear;
She raised her languid head to hear,
And, smiling in the arms of Death,
Consoled me with her latest breath.

What is the Poet's highest aim,
His richest heritage of fame?

To track the warrior's fiery road,
With havoc, spoil, destruction strow'd,
While nations bleed along the plains,
Dragg'd at his chariot-wheels in chains?

With fawning hand to woo the lyre,
Profanely steal celestial fire,
And bid an idol's altar blaze

With incense of unhallow'd praise?

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With syren strains, Circean art,

To win the ear, beguile the heart,

Wake the wild passions into rage,
And please and prostitute the age?

No!-to the generous bard belong
Diviner themes and purer song:

To hail Religion from above,
Descending in the form of Love,
And pointing through a world of strife
The narrow way that leads to life:

To pour the balm of heavenly rest
Through Sorrow's agonizing breast;
With Pity's tender arms embrace
The orphans of a kindred race;
And in one zone of concord bind
The lawless spoilers of mankind:
- To sing in numbers boldly free
The wars and woes of liberty;
The glory of her triumphs tell,
Her nobler suffering when she fell,*
Girt with the phalanx of the brave,
Or widow'd on the patriot's grave,
Which tyrants tremble to pass by,
Even on the car of Victory.

These are the Bard's sublimest views,

The angel-visions of the Muse,

That o'er his morning slumbers shine;

These are his themes, and these were mine.

"Piu val d'ogni vittoria un bel soffrire."


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