DETESTED land! such deep and deadly hate As once to Rome the Punic hero swore I vow to thee! O! were but mine the fate Over thy pale and trembling plains to pour The tempest of the battle, and to crush
In dust forever all thy vaunting pride, Impetuous to the glorious task I'd rush,
Terror, Despair, Destruction, by my side! Nor do I hate thee, France, for this alone, That thou from age to age thyself hast shown Foe to the realm that rules the subject waves; But that thy sons, detested land! are still
A race accurst, prone to extremes of ill; Blood-drinking tyrants, or dust-licking-slaves!
PULTENEY, the fourth young Spring now clothes the
Since my rude muse with laureate wreaths essay'd To deck the sacred spot, where he is laid
Who form'd my genius, and who gave me birth; Yet o'er my gayest hours of social mirth
Oft still his absence casts a saddening shade: Oft still to him my secret tears are paid While memory fondly dwells upon his worth. Hence mindful, who most shar'd his grateful love By many an act of generous kindness won, This page I mark, O Pulteney! with thy name; Happy, if so I draw thee to approve The pious gratitude which warms the son, Howe'er thy nicer taste the poet blame.
To F. N. C. Mundy, Esq. Author of " Needwood Forest.”
MUNDY, whose song hath taught the forest swain
To view fair NEEDWOOD thro' the radiance clear Of bright imagination, taught the tear
To glisten in his eye for other's pain,
And own that taste and virtue are not vain, How was thy pipe melodious wont to cheer The wintry groves, when every leaf was sere, And brighten summer with its artful strain! Say by what meed shall NEEDWOOD court thy stay? She unsuspecting twines in amorous care Her favourite holly and her flower bells-gay, To deck with modest hand her lover's hair,— Ah, do not thou her gentle hopes betray, And doom her tender bosom to despair!
My Gallic friends-ye friends belov'd in vain!
Thou vale of Tours, where Faith and Friendship
And every greenwood grove and every plain, Ye lost lamented scenes, ah, fare ye well! And fare ye well, ye village swains so gay, Who to the pipe and tabor's merry sound, Done and forgot the labours of the day,
Each with your partners deftly trip the ground; Peace to your plains, and still with smile serene, Fast by those fields for ever dwell Content: For Friendship hail'd me on your banks of green, And smiling Welcome wheresoe'er I went! Oh! vale of Tours where Faith and Friendship dwell, And you, ye friends beloyed in vain, farewell.
DEAR native Stream! ah, dearer far to me
Than Thames, tho' grandeur crown his margin gay; And not the Loire, all lovely tho' she be,
And passing fair, cou'd woo my thoughts away, Forgetful of thy haunts, loved Stream: nor she, The yellow Seine, whose peaceful waters play Through Gallia's fields, cou'd lure my heart from thee That faithful heart which knows not how to stray. Dear native Stream! lov'd Stour, to thee were paid My earliest vows, and thou my last shall have: And as my earliest steps were wont to tread,
So shall my last, thy banks, paternal wave ! And yò 1, ye trembling willows, wont to shade My youthful pastimes, ye shall shade my grave.
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