PR 
 
 5167 
 
 P3635o
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 O VE R'S HILL, 
 
 A POEM, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS.
 
 OVER'S HILL, 
 
 A POEM, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 JOHN PELL, ESQ. 
 
 EDITED BY THE REV. T. C. HADDON, LL.B. 
 WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 LONDON : 
 HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO., 33, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 GREAT YARMOUTH: 
 
 W. D. BURTON, 180, KING STREET. 
 
 1863.
 
 ?R 
 
 P3fc35»- 
 
 TO THE MOST NOBLE 
 
 %\i Jlarquts of port!) amp ton, 
 
 THESE POEMS, 
 
 THE PRODUCTIONS OF ONE WHO LONG ENJOYED THE 
 PATRONAGE OF HIS NOBLE HOUSE, 
 
 AEE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 
 
 1!V HIS OBLIGED AND OBEDIENT SERVANT. 
 
 THE EDITOB. 
 
 94ie";:'
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 MEMOIR Page ix. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON OVER'S HILL, NEAR OLNEY . . 1 
 LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING THE BURIAL-PLACE OP 
 
 THE LATE MARCHIONESS OF NORTHAMPTON 6 
 
 THE BIRTHDAY 9 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S COPY OP THE MEMOIRS OP 
 
 HENRY MARTYN 12 
 
 THE TRANSFIGURATION 14 
 
 COWPER'S OAK 17 
 
 THE VICTIM OP CONSUMPTION 22 
 
 THE PASTOR'S FUNERAL 25 
 
 ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF THE REV. HENRY GAUNTLETT, 
 
 VICAR OF OLNEY 28 
 
 COWPER 31 
 
 BURNS AND HIS FRIENDS 33 
 
 LINES ON AN INCIDENT OF THE PENINSULAR WAR 36 
 
 THE DYING POLE 41 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN SEAGRAVE, RECTOR 
 
 OF CASTLE ASHBY 44 
 
 NOVEMBER REFLECTIONS 47 
 
 EVENING AFTER A BATTLE 51 
 
 HENRY MARTYN 54 
 
 IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM DE NORMANN .. .. .. 56 
 
 THE GOURD 58 
 
 THISTLE-DOWN 61
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 JOHN PELL, the writer of the Poems to which 
 this notice is prefixed, spent nearly the whole 
 of his life in Northamptonshire ; having been born 
 at Ghiilsborough, in the year 1790, and having died 
 at Yardley-Hastings, in 1862. His early years were 
 passed under religious influences of a peculiar nature, 
 the effect of which is apparent in his writings, and 
 was so on his character to his latest days. But for 
 the leaven of the Puritans remaining in him, neither 
 his life nor his writings woidd have been what they 
 were. His parents were of the straitest sect of the 
 Nonconformists, when nonconformity had more of the 
 sternness of puritanism than belongs to it at present.
 
 V MIWOIK. 
 
 The Baptist denomination, a1 thai period, possessed 
 pastors and preachers whose influence we& great ;ni<l 
 whose memory is still cherished. The preaching of 
 such men as A\m:i;w Fuli.u: ami EtOBEBT Hai.i., 
 
 with others of less note, had established a standard 
 uf pulpit eloquence, and produced effects intellectual 
 as well as moral, both elevating and durable. The 
 preaching of those days, indeed, formed a very im- 
 
 port:iul part of the mental culture of the congrega- 
 tions thai attended upon it. The boyhood of our poet 
 fell in this period, which he always regarded so much 
 in the spirit of a laudator temporu acti as to leave 
 him but little sympathy with modern nonconformity. 
 School education, in those days, was far inferior to 
 what it has since become. If the old grammar schools 
 . rred by a too exclusive devotion to grammar and 
 the reading of Latin and Greek authors, the schools 
 of the Dissenters erred also Lq aiming at the commu- 
 nication of a superficial knowledge of many subjects, 
 involving a feeble, inefficient discipline of juvenile 
 1 To discipline of this kind it was hifl mis-
 
 MEMOIR. XI. 
 
 fortune to be subjected; a misfortune at which, in 
 after life, he often expressed his regret. As a boy, 
 he displayed abilities of a very high order, which 
 were never sufficiently exercised by continued appli- 
 cation : his school-days where days of comparative 
 idleness, spent in doing only what he could do with 
 ease. If this portion of his life had been passed in 
 one of the schools where sound scholarship was aimed 
 at and attained, he would, no doubt, have become 
 a distinguished scholar : the editor of his literary 
 remains would probably have had to deal with some- 
 thing of greater importance than a small collection 
 of elegiac and lyric poems. At eleven years old, he 
 was encouraged to write English verse, and praised 
 injudiciously for his success in producing good imita- 
 tions of bad models. A little later, he was employed 
 in composing essays on deep moral and religious sub- 
 jects, with similar success in the imitation of what, 
 in those days, passed with many persons for fine 
 writing. Thus was his boyhood unhappily abridged, 
 the due development of his powers checked, by being
 
 Ml MI-.MHll:. 
 
 directed to exorcises suited onlj to a more advanced 
 . the immediate r< - — . 1 1 It being .1 precocity, incom 
 patiblc with future greatness. 
 
 The medical profession heing chosen for liim. his 
 medical education was commenced at Wellingborough, 
 under Mr. Peck, continued at Northampton, under 
 the celebrated Dr. Keuk, the elder, and finished in 
 London, by tho usual routine of lecture- and attend- 
 ance in hospitals. Throughout his life, his character 
 as a medical practitioner retained the impress of that 
 of his master, Kerr, whose favourite pupil he was. 
 and whom he resembled in the sagacity with which 
 he treated disease, as well as in the little aptitude he 
 possessed at explaining tho reasons of his treatment. 
 
 Men of far inferior abilities have often risen to 
 fame and fortune in the medical profession. From 
 these results he was effectually debarred by a sensi- 
 tive shyness of character, under the influence <>t 
 which, he seemed to go through life contentedly as a 
 village apothecary. To the poor, he was ever most 
 considerate and charitable in the exercise of his
 
 MEMOTR. X111 
 
 profession : the mournful respect with which he 
 was followed to the grave by a crowd of this 
 class of his patients, evinced their sense of the 
 loss of a benefactor. The temperament which dis- 
 qualified him for becoming a fashionable medical 
 practitioner, prompted him at intervals to the 
 exercise of those powers by which he had acquired 
 fame in his early days : he occasionally indulged 
 in verse ; though the quantity which had accumu- 
 lated is but small, considered as the production of 
 a long life. He had expressed a desire to have these 
 pieces printed before his decease, that they might 
 afterwards be distributed amongst his friends as 
 memorials. This project, left unaccomplished in its 
 proper season, is now, from respect to his wishes, 
 carried into effect, so far as difference of circum- 
 stances permits. Of the poems, it is scarcely the 
 province of an editor to offer criticism ; he may, 
 however, be allowed to express his conviction that 
 competent judges will think them all worthy of 
 preservation, — that the sentiments they express, and
 
 \l\ Ml M'i||;. 
 
 the Leeeone they teach are everywhere good, — thai 
 the writer of them might well congratulate himself 
 
 cm their containing 
 
 No line, which dying, h<- would wish to blot,' 
 
 that throughout, they indicate the cur. and some 
 other qualities, though not th<' highest, of a true 
 poet.
 
 O VE K'S HILL, 
 
 A POEM, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS.
 
 LINES WEITTEN ON OVEE'S HILL, 
 NEAR OLNEY. 
 
 Yes, here again I stand, where once I stood, 
 When early days were friendly to my soul, 
 In calm communion with the wise and sood 
 Of ages past — till night's dark shadows stole 
 Around me ; and no voice or sound was heard, 
 Save of yon river's fall and night's delightful bird. 
 
 Again, river ! do I hear thy voice ; 
 And thy sweet trillings, melancholy bird, 
 Who seemest in the gloaming to rejoice. 
 The twilight deepens, as when first I heard 
 Your natural music, and your magic strain, 
 Mingling sad sweetness in my boyish cup of pain.
 
 2 i. i\i a wbi 1 1 iv "V ovee'b mi. I 
 
 Set, Bound ye aol as formerly, — "a chat 
 • Eath come opon the spiril of life's dream;" 
 i >r, w herefore doth your music Bound bo Strang 
 Y seem the same, and are l>ut whal ye >< em ; 
 Tia 1 am altered since my spring-time, when 
 I was a Btranger to the ways and vroea of men 
 
 I was a stripling, when upon my ears 
 
 First struck your natural melodies ; and now 
 
 Strange cares and sorrows, if they brought few teatt 
 
 Have left their wasting traces on my brow, 
 Marks of stem, rugged conflict, that the years 
 
 < >i' tlT uueouseious sehoolhov <li.l not, eoidd not know. 
 
 Those chimes play sweetly '■ BO they did of old j 
 
 But altered comes their sweetness to my heart 
 
 The sun set in a blaze of burning gold; 
 
 But not so joyously did he depart, 
 
 As when my young imagination threw, 
 
 " GHadnesa o'er all tilings, beautiful and w
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON OVER'S HILL. 
 
 Then was there poetoy in the wintry blast, 
 And heaven was in the gentle gales of spring ; 
 The summer flowers breathed incense as I passed | 
 All earth and sky, with angels on the wing 
 Seemed populous and busy, bringing treasures 
 Of holy hopes and joys, and virtuous pleasures. 
 
 Yet, still I love the works of God to scan, 
 
 And drink from Nature's chalice undefiled ; 
 
 But when the boy ascendeth into man, 
 
 He cannot feel as when he was a child, 
 
 Standing upon this green hill's beauteous brow , 
 
 And listening to the valley's sweet sounds from below* 
 
 No more, vain self ! no longer here intrude : 
 Be my soul harmonized to solemn thought ; 
 Fly all vain passions from this solitude ; 
 For ages past before my mind are brought, 
 Ages whose unrecorded deeds have passed away, 
 Whose every trace and mark have perished in decay 
 
 b2
 
 I. IN! i ii \ OV OVEB B nil I 
 
 Vet, Bound ye aol as formi rly, — " a chaj 
 " Bath come upon the spiril of life's dream ;" 
 Or, wherefore doth your music Bound bo strange V 
 V i the same, and axe but whal no ; 
 
 Tie I am altered since my Bpring-time, when 
 I was .i stranger to the ways and woes ofmea 
 
 I was a Btripling, when upon my ears 
 
 First .-truck y<»ur natural melodies ; and now 
 
 Strange cares and Borrows, If they brought few b ■ 
 
 Have Left their wasting traces on my brow, 
 
 Marks of stern, rugged conflict, that the years 
 
 I if th' unconscious schoolboy did not, «ould not know 
 
 Those chimes play sweetly I bo they did of old ; 
 But altered comes their Bweetness to my heart 
 The Miu set iii a blaze of burning gold; 
 But not so joyously did he depart, 
 As when my young imagination threw, 
 ■ Gladness o'er all things, beautiful and n<
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON OVER'S HILL. 
 
 Then was there poetry in the wintry blast, 
 And heaven Was in the gentle gales of spring ; 
 The summer flowers breathed incense as I passed ; 
 All earth and sky, with angels on the wing 
 Seemed populous and busy, bringing treasures 
 Of holy hopes and joys, and virtuous pleasures. 
 
 Yet, still I love the works of God to scan, 
 
 And drink from Nature's chalice undenled ; 
 
 But when the boy ascendeth into man, 
 
 He cannot feel as when he was a child, 
 
 Standing upon this green hill's beauteous brow, 
 
 And bstening to the valley's sweet sounds from beloW- 
 
 No more, vain self ! no longer here intrude : 
 Be my soul harmonized to solemn thought ; 
 Fly all vain passions from this solitude ; 
 For ages past before my mind are brought, 
 Ages whose unrecorded deeds have passed aAvay, 
 Whose every trace and mark have perished in decay 
 
 b2
 
 :.l\!> WhTTTEN ON TOTTING Till 
 BTJKIAL TLACK OF THE LATE "MAI: 
 CIITONF.ss ov XOIITIIAMPTON, 
 
 I sought the sacred dv. elling of the dead , 
 
 Hushed was all sound of voice, or footstep rude . 
 Mem'ries alone of soids from earth lon^ il--d 
 
 Wero with me, in that ancient sohtude ; 
 Th' escutcheoned wall and monumental urn, 
 
 Recording stories of forgotten woe, 
 "Of joys departed, never to return," 
 
 The -mourners, with their dead together laid helov. 
 
 From these I turn — and yon ina ription read, 
 Whi'li tells of one who met the common doom,' 
 
 5Te1 asking more than sorrow's wonted meed — 
 Pensive 1 gaze on epitaph and tomb.
 
 THE LATE MARCHIONESS OF NORTHAMPTON. I 
 
 So richly gifted, beautiful and young, 
 
 Earth's richest splendours seemed but meet for thee : 
 Now thou art dust, and mute the tuneful tongue ; 
 
 Thus all the good, thus all the great shall be. 
 
 To him, the widowed partner of her state, 
 
 O'er whom her life its joyous pleasance flung, 
 Rapt into anguish at her sudden fate, 
 
 His peace all shattered, and his powers unstrung, 
 0, heartless Death ! for thy remorseless spoil, 
 
 "What rank, or wealth, or genius can atone, 
 Or honours, or all fruits of human toil, 
 
 Since the high mind can love but one alone ? 
 
 Pale, sculptured effigy of life in death, 
 
 Well hath a hand, most cunning, traced thy form ; 
 The speaking lips unstirred by human breath, 
 
 The brow serene, unmoved by passion's storm. 
 Genius once sparkled in those beamless eyes, 
 
 And triumphed in each moveless feature then i ; 
 But who shall rouse them from their cold disguise ? 
 
 What wake to life those lineaments so fair?
 
 8 llll. LATE MARCHIONESS 01 NORTHAMPTOK 
 
 To the dim shelter of this hallowed dome, 
 
 Shall Mercy mild and Pity of! repair, 
 To gaze delighted on the arl of Rome, 
 
 Ami 1* arii the heart' lessons then 
 
 That Charity, more during palms bestows 
 
 Than kings and conquerors, in their proudesl fane, 
 Ever had bound upon their laurel'd brows, 
 
 In memory of their triumphs false ami vain. 
 
 For virtue liveth, alter perished art 
 
 Even from remembrance moulders into dust. 
 The eternal record never .shall depart, — 
 
 Whilst urns and vases, faithless to their trust, 
 With goodly temples, which those treasures graced, 
 
 Become the ruins of a desolate land, 
 That record in a nobler temple placed, 
 
 Defies all ruin, and shall ever stand.
 
 THE BIETHDAY. 
 
 Thus nineteen years have passed away, 
 Since dawned in light thy natal day. 
 How many more may onward roll, 
 Ere thou shalt reach life's destined goal, 
 Or what the colour of thy fate, 
 A cloudless sun to gild thy state, 
 Or tempests bursting o'er thy head, 
 To strike thy dearest comforts dead, 
 Or sunlit sky dispelling gloom, 
 To light thee to an honoured tomb — 
 Which, it imports us not to know : 
 Enough, that God is good and wise — 
 Good, if these blessings He bestow ; 
 Good, when these blessings He denies. 
 Yes, years roll on — life ebbs apace, 
 This world is not our resting place :
 
 Tin i'.ii;iin>\\ 
 
 In fleetnese Lb the poefa theme, 
 It^ glory l nit the hero's dream. 
 Tis l.ut us yesterday, thy nest 
 Tlmii Deadest on thy mother's breast, 
 \ thoughtless infant ; and e'en n< 
 Woman is written on thy brow. 
 A change hath passed upon thy I<>1, 
 The (Imams of infancy forgot; 
 Its joys and sorrows all are flown, 
 As to a world of thought unknown 
 Thou hast no memory of tin- past, 
 No knowledge of what once thou waai . 
 "When hardly conscious of alarms, 
 Thou revel'dst in thy mother's arms, 
 L«'t not such treasures thriftless pass, 
 Like sand-grains from ill' unheeded glfl 
 For different far, must be the BCi 
 Unfolded by the next nineteen. 
 The spirit's joyous bloom must fade, 
 Life's gorgeous tints no more displayed; 
 Thy womanhood the robes shall wear 
 • u soberness— perhaps of care
 
 THE BIRTHDAY 1 1 
 
 Yet grieve not, nor anticipate 
 The trials of disastrous fate ; 
 For though thy sky may darkened be, 
 And rough thy voyage across the sea, 
 On the good Pilot place thy trust, 
 He will secure thy precious dust, 
 Where care and sorrow are unknown, 
 The shadow of the Eternal Throne,
 
 LINKS WTvITTEN IN A LADY'S COPY "I 
 THE MEMOIRS OF IIK.M.'V MABTYN. 
 
 'Tis not by length of yeaxe 
 We measure life ; 
 
 Nor by loud groans and tears, 
 The inward strife 
 Of the heart's woe. 
 The long life oft is brief, 
 And that the bitterest uriel', 
 Where no tears flow. 
 
 Man doth not easiest die 
 < >n silken hurt, 
 
 With gilded canopy 
 Above his bead
 
 TITE MEMOIRS OF HENRY MARTYN. 
 
 Mocking at death : 
 The good man heedeth not 
 Whether in hall or cot, 
 
 He yields his breath. 
 
 He liveth long who leads 
 
 A life of prayer ; 
 And finds, whate'er he needs, 
 
 God everywhere : 
 'Mid Zembla's ices drear, 
 Or scorched by Tropic sun, 
 Breathing, " Thy will be done"- 
 
 Dies without fear. 
 
 For thee, I ask no meed 
 Of splendid fate ; 
 
 The destiny's decreed 
 Of all thy state, 
 Wane and increase ; 
 
 But making God thy friend, 
 
 Close by a peaceful end, 
 A life of peace.
 
 I i! K TL'ANSni, d KATlitN 
 i\\i;r:nx I'ou a LADY'S u.i;r\i.> 
 
 * * * * ••" * Not in tin spl< adid fane, 
 \Vh< re priests and levites worshipped, and the van- 
 Children of Mammon sought their bine to hide ; 
 But Thou didst climb the mountain's desolate sido; 
 Three favoured ones, companions of Thy ray, 
 To witness to Thy glory and to pray. 
 
 A- ;r,\ i'ul there, the Alan of Sorrows stood, 
 Lo ! splendours poured upon Him as a flood ; 
 O'er all His frame the luring glories spread, 
 Gild His meek fomi and light Hi- reverend h<
 
 THE TKANSFIGUKATION. 15 
 
 And with Him in divine conminnion stand, 
 Two elder brothers of that prophet band, 
 That through long ages had foretold His birth, 
 And blessed advent to this ruined earth. 
 Now speak they of the death that He must die 5 
 The last faint beams of his benignant eye, 
 The cross, the thorny crown, the Roman spears, 
 His country's taunts and curses ; and the tears 
 Of Mary, mother, blessed more than they, 
 Who bring to life mere human tilings of clay- 
 Dazzled, bewildered by the sacred blaze, 
 The three disciples tremble as they gaze : 
 Their transient slumbers pass, as by a word, 
 And they behold the glory of the Lord ! 
 Then spake the lion-hearted Peter : — " Her. 
 " Let us our tabernacles build ; no fear 
 " Of earthly sorrow shall our spirits wound, 
 " No sickness vex us, and no griefs confound i 
 " Placid and calm, as at some silver spring, 
 " A gentle dove re-plunies her wearied wing; 
 " So we, apart from earth and earth's employ", 
 " May spend our holy lives in perfect joy."
 
 16 I III I I- wm k.|-|:\ i [OK. 
 
 Thus Peter spake, in fancied vigour strong, 
 As the proud steed to battle bounds along, 
 Mi- breasi dilated with unwonted force, 
 Untired and fearless, rushing on liis course. 
 
 And didst thou, Peter, on thai raptured day, 
 Dream, on that mount thou couldst for ever Btay? 
 Did no kind angel whisper in thine ear, 
 Of perjured vows, and honour lost in fear; 
 
 No Growings of that ominous bird that spoke 
 Of forfeit bonds and resolutions broke? 
 
 Learn, gentle Maiden, from this record true, 
 Hourly, by grace, thy virtu.' to renew — 
 That human strength, unholpen, is bul dust : 
 Weak all our powers, and vain our firmest trust.
 
 COWPEE'S OAK. 
 
 And art thou still existent, still a tree ? 
 
 Still rave the wild winds round thine asred head ? 
 
 While he who sweetly sang, and gave to thee, 
 
 A second youth and immortality, 
 
 Feels not nor hears them in his narrow bed, 
 
 The lonely silent mansion of the dead. 
 
 Ages and centuries have passed since thou 
 Did'st spring a tender sapling from the earth ; 
 Ages passed by, nor left upon thy brow, 
 Marks save of strength and beauty : even now 
 Ages may pass, ere prostrate on the earth 
 Eelentless Time may lay thine honours low.
 
 Wliu planted thee, old patriarch of the wood, 
 Watch'd 1 1 1 \ >\>>w growth, and trained thine infant a 
 And lia|il\ ut't in solemn musings stood. 
 
 in- mysteries of thy futui i 
 Of changeful destiny — the ill or good — 
 By lightning riven, or buoyant o'er the flood ' 
 
 llasr thou a spirit ? (rive it then a voi' 
 Speak, as of old the mystic Druid spoke, 
 Who bade a people sorrow or rejoice, 
 In hollow accents from the sacred oak : 
 Tell of the horrors of thy youthful time, 
 The age of feudal violence and crime. 
 
 For they were days of violence and hlood, 
 
 That witnessed the uprising of th\ form, 
 
 Ere Time had crowned thee monarch of the wood, 
 
 Or bowed thy topmost branches to the storm; 
 
 And now thy many trials all withstood. 
 
 Thou stand' st a silent preacher to the good
 
 cowper's oak, 19 
 
 What, silent still ! No thrilling tale of blood, 
 Or lawless violence, or wanton power ; 
 Did guilty footsteps never dare intrude, 
 Upon thy peaceful, dreamless solitude, 
 To wake to tears the pity of the good, 
 And rack the guilty in his dying hour ? 
 
 Did never thy huge, guilty arms sustain, 
 The serf that battled by the oppressor's side, 
 And at the will of that proud master died, 
 Quivering in agonies of mortal pain ? 
 Tell if thou can'st, if thou can'st find a tongue ; 
 Confirm what tales have told, and elder bards have 
 sung. 
 
 Where lie the victims of barbarian lust, 
 And which the hillocks populous with death ? 
 Point to the grey-haired, murdered parent's dust, 
 Where the lone traveller sighed his latest breath : 
 Can'st thou not tell the secrets of their tomb, 
 Nor light the grave's impenetrable gloom ? 
 
 i 2
 
 20 -"V, OAK. 
 
 Stem gnarL d chronicler! is there no string 
 
 In thy tough heart, that I may touch, 
 
 Or tale of eld, or of the elfin rii 
 
 No chord to jar thy rugged nerves along, 
 
 No midnighl Legend of the fairy knoll, 
 
 To wake the niomory of thy slumbering soul ? 
 
 Did'st never converse hold with Milton — He 
 The sightless poet of the angelic sphere, 
 When the dread postilence of thai fatal year, 
 Bade him to thy contiguous refuge flee, 
 llad'st thou no knowledge of the illustrious dead. 
 Or is thy consciousness and memory fled ? 
 
 Thou speak'st not even of him win ■ sung of thee, 
 Ungrateful! thou art voiceless in his praise, 
 Even his whose sweetly melancholy lays 
 Crowned thine old head with immortality : 
 Hold'st thou no precious relics of his song, 
 To whom thy name, and fame, and praise belong?
 
 cowper's oak. 21 
 
 Old tree, farewell ! the fatal hour makes haste, 
 Shall bring thy faded honours to their tomb, 
 Nor Cowper's lays, nor Compton's* generous taste, 
 Can save thee from the inevitable doom : 
 Even now thy living branches seem to mock 
 Thy dead and dying members, which the shock 
 Of the elements hath wasted, — like a wreath 
 Of summer flowers upon the brow of death. 
 
 * The Marquis of Northampton had a board placed on the tree, with an 
 inscription requesting visitors not to mutilate it.
 
 THE VICTIM OF CONSUMPTION. 
 
 I saw her in tin- morn of hope, in youth's delicious 
 
 spring, 
 Elate and joyous as the lark just bursting on the 
 
 wing, 
 A radiant creature of the earth as first it soars on 
 
 high, 
 Without a shadow on its path, or cloud upon itfl 
 
 sky. 
 
 I see her yet — so fancy deems — her dark and waving 
 hair, 
 
 Gleaming like shadows upon 6now, above her fore- 
 head fair, 
 
 Her large dark eye of glancing light, the winning 
 Bmile that play'd 
 
 In dimpling sweetness round tb< mouth Expression's 
 -II' bad made
 
 THE VICTIM OF CONSUMPTION. 1 
 
 l-i 
 
 I marked the first faint emblems of Consumptio] 
 
 hectic wreath, 
 The boding smiles that spoke to me of treachery 
 
 beneath, 
 Her wasting slenderness of form, her changed yet 
 
 lustrous eye. 
 And sadly said my heart, " Grod ! and must this 
 
 fair one die ? " 
 
 And long she lingered ere the chain that bound her 
 
 spirit broke, 
 And long and sorely suffered, ere the last resistless 
 
 stroke, 
 That took away all mortal pain and weakness and 
 
 disguise, 
 And her soul upborne upon the wings of angels 
 
 sought the skies. 
 
 Yet peaceful was its parting from its wasted tene- 
 ment, 
 
 And much of Heavenly mercy with the painful judg- 
 ment blent,
 
 
 2 I \ I' MM (ii I 0N8UMPTI0N. 
 
 1 airs from Paradise came wafted through 
 the gloom, 
 'I'c cheer ami t<> Bupporl her in hei i to the 
 
 •• mil. 
 
 And now In-]- tenantlese remains are decaying in the 
 
 V''. 
 
 And above that narrow dwelling <l«>th the grass 
 unchiddes wave, 
 »ain shall life and beauty re-animate her clay ; 
 sting of death is sin"; and that her Saviour 
 took away.
 
 THE PASTOR'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Rapt into anguish, at thy sudden doom, 
 
 Thy sorrowing people gather round thy tomb, 
 
 To pay the last sepulchral honours bend, 
 
 And mourn the saint, the pastor and the friend. 
 
 No vain display, no mockery of woe, 
 
 No laboured art to teach our tears to flow, 
 
 No mimic grief nor overacted part ; 
 
 We mourn thee, with the mourning of the heart 
 
 We mourn the pastor, faithful to his trust, 
 Whose narrow grave receives his honoured dust 
 Widows and orphans (bop the gushing tear, 
 And cry " Our parent, friend, lies buried here."
 
 THE PASTOR - PUN] B \i. 
 
 gorgeous obsequies thy bones await. 
 No gilded Bhrine, nor canopy of state, 
 Nor blazoned shield suspended o'er thy tomb, 
 No choral dirge, deepening the midnight gloom. 
 
 To their last homo, midst gentle mourning strains 
 In simple state, we've borne thy Loved remains, 
 To resl in friendship with their kindred clay, 
 Till the last trumpel wake i< the rising-day." 
 
 Hero shall affection, to thy memory true, 
 This simple -rave with plenteous tears bedew, 
 And lowly bending o'er the uncona rth, 
 
 Embalm the virtues of the Man of Worth. 
 
 And ! if spirits freed from mortal (are, 
 E'er unseen wander through the yielding air, 
 If, at their will celestial forms can rove, 
 O'er earthly scenes of laln.nr or of Love : — 
 Here, in this house, the witness of thy lira; 
 '^feni, df thy oarnesl Labours and thy (ares,
 
 THE PASTOR'S FUNERAL. 2 < 
 
 Where now in slumber rests thy mortal part, 
 
 Descend and cheer and animate each heart : 
 
 Teach us the alluring charms of sin to fly, 
 
 In faith to live, in humble hope to die ; 
 
 Our faith confirm, our grovelling thoughts refine, 
 
 And raise our fainting powers to bliss like thine. 
 
 Whilst on the narrow grave where Whitehead sleeps, 
 
 Each pensive mourner bends his eye and weeps, 
 
 And busy memory counts his virtues o'er, 
 
 And 'wails the friend and shepherd, now no more ; 
 
 Let us not mourn as those of hope bereft, 
 
 But duteous tread the path our prophet left ; 
 
 To his new home let all our wishes rise, 
 
 And humbly trace his footsteps to the skies ; 
 
 Still keep his bright example full in view, 
 
 Nor be this parting scene a last adieu.
 
 LINES ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF THE 
 REV. HENRY GATJNTLETT, VIOAB OF 
 OLNEY. 
 
 i ly, alone and suddenly ho passed : 
 Even as pale meteors vanish from the night, 
 So disappeared he from life's dreary waste, 
 
 To rise a bright star in etherial light. 
 No lingering in his passage, no delay, 
 
 No wearisome anticipated doom, 
 The summons comes, he speeds him on his wa\ 
 
 One easy step, and he is sale al home. 
 
 "When princes perish in the battle fray, 
 
 I Jeep music tills the air, with plaintive strains, 
 
 And the proud banner o'er the mangled clay, 
 Shields from the common eye the loved remains;
 
 LINES ON THE LATE REV. HENRY GAUNTLET!'. 29 
 
 But thou, dead soldier of the holy cross, 
 For thee no nation lifts the funeral wail, 
 
 Yet pious spirits weep thy sudden loss, 
 And filial mourners turn with sorrow pale. 
 
 Frailties had'st thou ? Thou hast no frailties now, 
 
 Grently thy passions move in sweet accord, 
 And heavenly splendours clothe that sainted brow, 
 
 Shed from the glory of thy martyred Lord. 
 Eeflected from His Grod-like face, the rays 
 
 Of light celestial sparkle from the throne ; 
 Thou dost behold His image, and the blaze 
 
 Transforms thee to the likeness of His own. 
 
 A glorious change hath passed across the scene 
 
 Of thy o'erlaboured and protracted life : 
 The great realities then dimly seen, 
 
 Down the dark vista of a world at strife ; 
 Even the deep mysteries of redeeming love 
 
 All stand revealed and open to thine eyes : 
 To holy joy, thy powers, made perfect, move, 
 
 And glows the enfranchised soul with glad surprise.
 
 [0 mm ON TH ■ '• '- ; I i 
 
 Tin >ns oi the Apocalypse,"* an 
 
 Thou dwellesi u<>t dim shadowy forms among 
 With liim of Patmos does thy spiril Boar, 
 
 Bwifl as an eagle, as a Beraph stroi 
 Yet wilt thou no1 on this 'lark spol of earth, 
 
 Oft turn tho glances of that heavenly eye, 
 To alarm the virions, .luck the sons of mirth, 
 
 Anil teach the suffering Christian how to die ? 
 
 • Mr. Qauntlett was the autt n* on the " .\i» ■
 
 COWPER. 
 
 Thou wast a Christian Poet, and thy muse, 
 "Was fed by other than Castalian dews, 
 Pure from the rock the stream, celestial broke, 
 And gushed in numbers at the Spirit's stroke ; 
 0, had thy Homer known a fount like thine ! 
 Then had his numbers been indeed divine. 
 
 Thou wast the bard of Liberty ! thy pen 
 Wrote her best doctrines for thy fellow men ; 
 Her sacred precepts well adorn thy page, 
 And bid us scorn the bondsman's heritage ; 
 And nobly is the lesson taught by thee, — 
 " He is the freeman whom the truth makes free."
 
 32 < own 
 
 An. I thou w.ist Nature's Poet, and didsl ring 
 ( tftreea and times, and ad did'sl fl 
 
 Even o'erold Winter's cheek of frost and snow, 
 A mask of Lusty beauty and a glow ; 
 Ami sweetly didsl thou sing of sylvan age, 
 And well record its Lessons in tin pa 
 
 And thou wast man, of gentle woman born, 
 And nought of human could' st regard with scorn ; 
 Whate'er his country, barbarous or refined, 
 Thou wast liis friend and friendly to his kind. 
 For Jesus' sake thou Lovedst him, as He 
 Once came from heaven and died for love of thee. 
 
 Yet thou wast miserable ! — on tin- brink 
 
 Of hell thy fancy hovered — thon didsl drink 
 
 A cup of loatldy mingling, even a bowl 
 
 Of poisonous mixture — hemlock to thy soul: 
 
 Midst clouds thy sun sank int<> track] ght, 
 
 And left th ci • with thy God, withoul one ray of light.
 
 BUENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 " ! Willie brewed a peek o' maut, 
 " And Rob and Allan cam' to prie, 
 
 " Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night, 
 " Ye wadna' find in Christendie. 
 
 CHOKUS. 
 
 " We are no' fou, we're na' that fou, 
 " But jist a draj)pie in our ee', 
 
 •' The cock may craw, the day may daw', 
 " But aye we'll taste the barley bree." 
 
 Sae Willie, Rob, and Allan sang, — 
 Sae taunted Time wi' wit and glee ; 
 
 And, aye, the chorus, all night lang, 
 Was, as we're now, we hope to be —
 
 I BURNS \NI> in 
 
 • For \\ e're no' fou, w e're oa' thai fou, 
 •• Bui ji^t a wee drap In our ee' 
 
 •• The cock may craw, the day may daw': 
 
 •• But still we'll taste the barley bree." 
 
 Time heard their taunts and gripl hi> scythe, 
 
 And sware an aith, they weel mighl cb 
 Had they dived aught, while bold an' blithe, 
 
 Tliey sang inspired wi' barley bree : 
 " We are na' fou, we're na' that fdu, 
 
 " But jist a drappie in our ee'. 
 " The cock may craw, the day may daw', 
 
 " But aye we'll taste the barley bree." 
 
 He sware, short while the cock should craw, 
 
 Their harbinger of mom to be ; 
 For them, short time, the day should daw', 
 
 \\T golden tint on tower and tn 
 Short while, for them, the moon's pale norn 
 
 Should gild the scene o'er land and lea, 
 Eire hapless daw aed the fatal morn 
 
 Should gild the graves of all the thi
 
 BURNS AND HIS FRIENDS. 35 
 
 And soon, too soon, his aith was proved, 
 
 Though in its proof, sma' pairt had he, 
 Their death was from the life they loved, 
 
 Their mortal drap, the barley bree. 
 Nae mair they'll sing, — " We're no' that fou;" 
 
 Nae mair the drap be i' their ee', 
 Nor cock shall craw, nor day shall daw' 
 
 For them, while o'er the barley bree. 
 
 Soon Learning mourned for Willie gane, 
 
 For Robin, Poesy wet her ee', 
 And Science made for Allan mane, 
 
 Sin' Death's dark house held all the three. — 
 Britons ! lament for genius rare, 
 
 All victims of the barley bree, 
 And ban the bree, that would na' spare 
 
 The precious lives o' sic a three. 
 
 d 2
 
 LINES "N AX [NC] DENT OF THE 
 PENIN8ULAB WAE.* 
 
 Blow, fiercely blow thou bitter bis 
 
 Lightning and thunders read the sH< 
 And bid thy wav< s, thou ocean vast, 
 
 In horribles! confusion risi' : 
 Let the wild land-storm pour its rag 
 
 And sweep a nation to the tomb; 
 Fling ruin o'er the boast of ages, — 
 
 It is His hand that writes their doom. 
 
 But deadlier far, the awful scene, 
 
 The horror- of thai fatal day, 
 When rival ranks of dauntless mica 
 
 Perished amid the mortal fray. 
 
 The death of a young Subaltern, which waa attributed to fatigue and 
 exhaustion.
 
 LINES ON AN INCIDENT OF THE PENINSULAR WAR. .'37 
 
 ! faithful to their country's trust, 
 
 But few, alas ! remained to tell 
 How many a hero to the dust, 
 
 'Mid prayers and shouts, and curses fell. 
 
 Fought is the battle, and 'tis won, 
 And the day's work of death is done. 
 The veteran, leaning on his spear, 
 Scarce can repress the bitter tear, 
 As wildly, and with faltering breath, 
 He views the awful scene of death : 
 How many a kind and early friend, 
 This day hath reached his journey's end ! 
 
 Sad musings stealing o'er his mind, 
 He weighs the madness of mankind : 
 Around lie slaughtered foes and friends ; 
 "With life their awful variance ends : 
 Foeman and friend resign their breath, 
 In the still fellowship of death.
 
 38 links ON AN r Di ill) ii NiNsri.Ai: \v.\i:. 
 
 Deep-whelmed beneath the human wave, 
 A hosl of heroes found (heir grave ; 
 
 I'pon 1 1 nir (in amon parent's breast 
 Bravely they fought, and sunk to ri 
 But whose thai pale, that bloodless mien, 
 
 Strange contrast with this gory scene? 
 
 Dnbruised amid this human storm, 
 No scars deface liis youthful form, 
 
 Faint and exhausted, <m the ground, 
 And dying, yet without a wound ! 
 
 Say, is it Death has closed his o\ 
 
 Or is it aught in Death's disguifi 
 
 He breathes yet; — ere the night-dew falls. 
 
 Bear him to yonder convent walls, 
 
 Let holy sisters round his bed, 
 
 The pious dews of mercy shed ; 
 
 Their kindly bosoms ever glow, 
 
 At sight of suffering and woe : 
 
 Tiny best invite returning sense, — 
 
 Then comra ffcly, bear him h< i
 
 LINES ON AN INCIDENT OF THE PENINSULAR WAR. .')'.) 
 
 Safe from this scene of war's alarms, 
 They bore him up in soldiers' arms : 
 And holy sisters on his head, 
 The dews of pious mercy shed, 
 And wept and prayed, and gently strove 
 To shew a mother's, sister's love, 
 And kindly tended by his side, 
 Till in their gentle arms he died. 
 
 His death no stone records — his birth, 
 His name, his lineage, or his worth : 
 They laid him, in a rural tomb, 
 Deep hidden in umbrageous gloom. 
 And there as sweetly doth he rest, 
 With foreign soil above his breast, 
 As though his tenantless remains, 
 Mouldered beneath his native plains. 
 
 Avails it how we yield our breath, 
 Or where we meet the stroke of death,
 
 10 LINES ON AS ixumni 01 im I'l \i.\-ri..\i; \v.\K. 
 
 Whether in shades of oighl we die, 
 1 >r in the daj V taosi busj eye, 
 Alone, or in the midsl of friends, 
 This feverish dream of being ends? 
 
 Companiorj <>r those genial hours, 
 Winn pleasure strewed our path with flow 
 Adieu ! thy voyage of life is o'er, 
 Thou'rt stranded on a foreign shore : 
 Thine was the soul of honour, thine 
 The heart that howcd at pity's shrine. 
 No Lraver trod the path of blood, 
 No gentler roamed the village wood: 
 Adieu, thy pilgrimage is o'et, 
 Ended u|x»ii ;i friendly shore.
 
 THE DYING- POLE. 
 
 Beae up, bear up, a little while, as yet my throbbing 
 heart, 
 close not yet, on all I love, my dim, my closing 
 eye; 
 Too true, ye tell me, and I feel that I must soon 
 depart ; 
 Yet for my dear, my native land 'tis comely thus 
 to die. 
 The sun is sinking in the west, his daily race is 
 
 o'er, 
 Mine too is sinking, and shall rise, ah ! never, never 
 more. 
 
 Thy blessed beams, Sun, no more shall wake me 
 in the morn ; 
 For me no more the merry lark .shall heavenward 
 soar and sing ;
 
 12 tin: DYING POLK. 
 
 No more for me the silver moon shall lift her Btately 
 horn, 
 
 Nor round my homeward evening path her quiel 
 radianoe fling : 
 From this told earth, my colder limbs shall n< 
 
 more arise, 
 And I no more shall watch you aa ye triumph 
 through (he Bkies. 
 
 Beyond those swelling; mountains, now tmged with 
 evening light, 
 I lived my mother's darling and my father's 
 cliiefest joy, 
 
 0! could they now behold me, and blesa my failing 
 sight, 
 'Twould be a comfort to their hearts to tend their 
 dying boy : 
 
 How tenderly they'd h">k <m me and catch my part- 
 ing groan, 
 
 Ah me! there is no hope "l this: and 1 must die 
 alone.
 
 THE DYING POLE. 43 
 
 Alone ! no, God is with, me, and His arm sustains my 
 head, 
 He never can abandon the spirit of the free, 
 
 And while I'm shivering into death upon this grassy 
 bed, 
 His blessed saints and angels shall tend and com- 
 fort me : 
 
 Pro me orate ! Blessed Saints, a slain, a dying boy, 
 
 And guide me where the bond is free, nor tyrants 
 can destroy. 
 
 'Tis well nigh over — my fixt eye no object can discern; 
 To Thee, God of Liberty, my breaking heart I turn; 
 Look on me where I lie ; accept a Polish patriot's 
 
 blood ; 
 Make it a stream of life and strength, that, as a 
 
 mighty flood, 
 Shall drown oppression, and destroy the counsels of 
 
 the wise, 
 And teach the proud and merciless, their refuges ar° 
 
 lies.
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OE THE REV. JOHN 
 SEAGKRAVE, RECTOE OE OASTLE ASHBY. 
 
 Toll the mournful passing bell, 
 
 Sound the deep funereal knell! 
 
 A mortal hath escaped from earth, 
 
 Achieved the object of his birth, 
 
 Eternity's dark veil hath riven, 
 
 And changed this earthly scene for heavi n. 
 
 Mourn, ye who knew and loved him, mourn ; 
 To you he never shall return : 
 His well-accustomed step uo more, 
 Shall meei yen at the cottage door, 
 No inure his lips good counsi I give, 
 
 To teach its inmates how to live,
 
 LINES OX THE DEATH OF THE REV. J. SEAGRAVE. 45 
 
 The good to praise, the evil warn, 
 To cheer the suffering and forlorn, 
 Or point his flock to wisdom's way, 
 Or teach the infant mind to pray. 
 
 Mourn, ye who knew and loved him, mourn ; 
 
 To you he never shall return, 
 
 His willing hands no more dispense, 
 
 The alms of kind beneficence, 
 
 His feet no more the pathway tread, 
 
 That to the abodes of sickness led ; 
 
 The beauteous scenes so often trod, 
 
 The churchward path, the pleasant sod, 
 
 Those feet shall mutely mark no moce ; 
 
 Their mortal pilgrimage is o'er. 
 
 Mourn, ye who knew and loved him, mourn ; 
 
 To you he never may return : 
 
 That solemn brow, thought's favorite spot, 
 
 Its musings all are quite forgot : 
 
 That ear which drank the tale of grief, 
 
 To you is now for ever deaf :
 
 16 LUTES OH nil. DEATB OF I 111 U HAVE. 
 
 'l'lic manly ln-art, life's luisine-- O'er, 
 
 lis steady pulses licai n«> more, 
 
 The worn-out frame of reverend grace, 
 
 llutli found its la>t lit resting-place. 
 
 Nay, mourn not, ye who loved him here, 
 Or, shod hut memory's placid tear; 
 Life's mouldering organs do bu1 Bleep ; 
 
 But he hath passed the stormy deep, 
 The fahled stygiau stream hath passed 
 And reached his hnal home at last. 
 The dream is o'er, the feverish strife, 
 And death is swallowed up of life.
 
 NOVEMBER EEFLECTIONS. 
 
 — o — 
 
 Daek is the morn, and through the ah 
 
 The spirit of the tempest flies, 
 Nature, of late, so bright and fair, 
 
 Adorned with flowers of thousand dyes, 
 All beauteous to the view, 
 Now shrinking from the tyrant blast, 
 Appears a desolated waste, 
 And reads this lesson to the mind — 
 Such is the fate of human kind, — 
 A lesson sad yet true.
 
 I v uroVl Mm B i;i il.K IP ' 
 
 The voice <>r melody thai late, 
 Re-echoed through the listening grove; 
 
 TTiith it, :ilas ! -m diort a date, 
 I- all on which we fix oni love, 
 So perishing and frail ? 
 'Tie l>ui ae yesterday, the scene, 
 In varied robes of cheerful green, 
 Prom early morn to closing day, 
 Looked rich and beautiful and gay, 
 And told a lovelier tale. 
 
 November comes, and at his .all. 
 
 The genius of the storm awakes, 
 Flowers fad< — the leaves deciduous fall, 
 
 The vision flies, the enchantment breaks, 
 And vanishi e away. 
 Now drenched with fold and cheerless rain-. 
 
 The shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
 And wet-shod traverses the plains, 
 
 Erewhile with summer beauty fair; 
 In his dull eye and aching breast, — 
 In all, this moral stands confest — 
 Life is no summer's daw
 
 NOVEMBER REFLECTIONS. 49 
 
 Yet are there some, whose feelings beat 
 
 Responsive to the fading year, 
 Who tread with pleased and willing feet, 
 
 The leafless grove, the pathway drear, 
 Nor converse hold with joy ; 
 Who hail dread winter's darkest gloom, 
 
 Nor fear a rougher path ; 
 Who welcome Fate's severest doom, 
 
 Welcome the hed of death : 
 O'er whose bared heads, the storm hath passed 
 Alone on life's bewildered waste ; 
 Who bare then- bosoms to the blast 
 And bid its rage destroy. 
 
 Is there an outcast tempest-driven, 
 
 Tossing on Life's uncertain sea, 
 No home on earth, no hold on heaven ? 
 
 Poor wretch ! who woidd not pity thee ? 
 For thee no happier day shall dawn, 
 
 No kind and cloudless skies, 
 Nor glory's pure perpetual morn, 
 
 Awake thy ravished eyes. 
 
 E
 
 iO NOVEKBEB ft] i i.i .' I l" 
 
 The wint'ry storm BhaU pass away, 
 
 The tempi e it- horrid strife, 
 
 The summer sun prolong the day, 
 
 Re-quickening Nature int<> life ; 
 Bu1 M.in shall \\ ither ;i- ili<- gra 
 
 Youth, health and beauty quickly Bade, 
 Wealth, pride and pomp aa quickly pai 
 
 Low in il*«- <lu-i together laid.
 
 EVENING AFTER A BATTLE. 
 
 Fought is the battle and 'tis won. 
 And the day's work of Death is done : 
 Down in the west the snn is sinking:, 
 
 Gilding the hills with lingering light, 
 And from sad scenes of horror shrinking, 
 
 Bids a conflicting world, good night. 
 
 Fair was thy rising, glorious sun, 
 Unlike a harbinger of sorrow, 
 
 'Mid clouds thy noon-tide race was run, 
 But thou shalt rise as fair, to-morrow , 
 
 E 2
 
 52 I VI MM, AIM Ml A II \ I I i 
 
 \ml in oontempl of human strife, 
 Thou 8hal1 repair thy wasted beams, 
 
 And lling o'er every haunt of life, 
 
 In gorgeous pomp, thy golden gleams. 
 
 Fair was ih\ rising; thy firsl rays 
 Shed gladness o'er the western mountains; 
 
 Nought luit tin' matin song of praisi 
 
 The tuneful groves and bubbling fountains, 
 Disturbed the silence of the scene : 
 'Twas i aim and quiet and serene. 
 Morning her glories o'er the landscape threw, 
 Green as the spring, and glittering with dew. 
 
 Hut whence that wild continuous blast, 
 
 That roar which tilled the swollen gale, 
 As late with heavy gust it passed 
 
 And mountain echoes sped the tale ? 
 It was the awful voice of War; 
 
 Carnage and Death were in his train, 
 Behind his desolating car, 
 
 Were Borror, Famine, Grief and Pain
 
 EVENING AFTER A BATTLE. 53 
 
 I cannot paint the mortal strife, 
 
 The shrieks, the groans, the dying anguish : 
 Such awful waste of human life 
 
 Would make the fiercest spirit languish. 
 The deep-mouthed clarion's warlike tones, 
 Mix with the dying soldier's groans, 
 As fainting on the earth he lies, 
 And feebly shouting " Victory ! " dies.
 
 IlKNRY MAWTYN. 
 
 — u 
 
 Ix climes remote, where moral death 
 < I'er all with horror frowned. 
 
 And Error with contagious breath 
 Spread pestilence around. 
 
 No friendly hand was there, to close 
 His dim and wearied eyes, 
 
 But bowed by solitary woes, 
 The Christian pilgrim dies. 
 
 Yet there, how sweetly do1h he rest, 
 
 In Tocat's burning sands, 
 Willi foreign soil ahuye his he;id. 
 
 Entombed by stranger hands.
 
 HENRY MARTYN. 55 
 
 Joyful from that lone desert shrine. 
 
 His sacred dust shall rise, 
 By angel summons called to join 
 
 His Saviour in the skies.
 
 IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM DE NORMANN. 
 
 It was not in the battle, it was not in the storm, 
 No bullet pierced his bosom, no lightning scathed his 
 
 form, 
 Nor wasting Tropical disease, nor liver's parching 
 
 breath 
 Crushed his young life and living hopes into the 
 
 house of Death. 
 
 Faultless in person, with a noble mind, 
 
 In manners courteous, manly yet refined, 
 
 Aye true to conscience and to duty's call, 
 
 To friends his love, and honour due, to all : 
 
 These could not save from treachery accur-i 
 
 By torture wasted, the strained heart-strings burst;
 
 IN MEMORY OF "WILLIAM DE NORMANN. 57 
 
 And, hope and life expiring, prone he fell, 
 'Mid perjured fiends, foul ministers of hell. 
 Bury the dead ! though in a borrowed grave ; 
 And deeply mourn, though impotent to save. 
 Yes, bury him in that sequestered spot : 
 The cords are broke, the agony forgot. 
 He sleeps in peace : the immortal ends not here, 
 He waits his summons to a brighter sphere. 
 A body lies near Pekin's gorgeous towers, 
 But he has rest ; — the grief and hope are ours.* 
 
 * This young gentleman fell a victim to the treachery of the Chinese, 
 at the close of the late war with China.
 
 T II E GOURD. 
 
 Jonah, chap. Iv. 
 
 Beneath a sweet and pleasant gourd, 
 
 My watchless heart waa deeping; 
 But a worm came gnawing to its root. 
 
 And turned my joy to weeping : 
 And, as it pale and sickly grew, 
 
 And daily seemed declining, 
 My heart grew wan and sickly too, 
 
 And sinfully repining. 
 
 " And, wilt thou, Lord," — this was my cry- 
 
 ' ' Thus leave me all alone ? 
 " Others have store of blessings, I 
 
 "Have hnt this cherished one;
 
 THE GOURD. 59 
 
 " One shadowing shelter on the waste. 
 
 " T'assuage lil'e's burning sky: 
 ' ' Till these tierce heats be overpast, 
 
 " 0, spare it, lest I die." 
 
 Thus did my tortured spirit rave, 
 
 Thus madly bit the dust : 
 In Him, who had the power to save, 
 
 I put no filial trust. 
 Faithless, despairing at my fate, 
 
 This plunged me into sin : 
 When Passion forces Reason's gate, 
 
 Legions of foes rush in. 
 
 A voice ! — " Presumptuous mortal know 
 
 " Thy Sovereign, and be still ! 
 " The plant is mine, to bid it grow, 
 
 " Or wither at my will. 
 " 'Tis thine to lie, with humbler tone, 
 
 " Submissive in the dust 
 " And whatsoe'er the event, to own 
 
 " Thy punishment is just.
 
 60 mi 90TJBD. 
 
 " ])i<l I nut form thee —hath the clay, 
 
 •• [Thus to it- Former spoke ? 
 "The patient steer, the live-long day 
 
 " Yields i" its master's yoke : 
 "Angels beneath their trembling wings, 
 
 " Before ine veil their i'ace. 
 "Then humbly bow, and learn to trusl 
 
 " The hand thou can'sl no! trace." 
 
 I heard that voice : 1 hear it still 
 
 And bow to its control, 
 Yet gently did its influence fill 
 
 Each chamber of my soul. 
 Though wounded, not despairing, now 
 
 I own the hand of God, 
 Chastised, yet not forsaken, bow ; 
 
 For Mercy wields the rod.
 
 THISTLE-DOWN. 
 
 " Cursed is the ground for thy sake." " Thorns also and thistles 
 
 shall it bring forth to thee." — GENESIS iii. 17, 18. 
 
 Ah ! go ye sad remembrancers, 
 Obedient to your Lord, 
 
 And scatter down to future years, 
 The signets of His word. 
 
 If whirled upon the stormy West, 
 Or sailing with the breeze, 
 
 Or, scarce afloat on eve^s calm breast, 
 Still speaking His decrees.
 
 i iiisru -DOWM 
 
 I [over round Infidelity . 
 
 Wave thee before her -\ 
 Press her to own, fulfilled in thee, 
 
 The message of the Bkies. 
 
 Winged bj the curse, spread wanl around, 
 
 Preach vengeance as ye fly, 
 Then 1 >i«l the troubled thoughl rebound 
 
 To peaceful Oi Ivarj 
 
 Aloud denounce the righteous woe, 
 
 On Eden's exiles laid ; 
 Bui louder yet, where'er ye go, 
 
 Proclaim the ransom paid. 
 
 Bosoiu'd in ilown, In! ruv.^-> n»w. 
 On silent pinions borne : 
 
 I )ur least suspected comforts prove 
 The parents of a thorn.
 
 THISTLE-DOWN. 63 
 
 Great condescending Husbandman, 
 
 Behold the lurking seed, 
 And grant, grant Thy saving hand 
 
 To crush the deathful weed. 
 
 This Poem is found amongst Mr. Pell's manuscripts, and is inserted for 
 its merit— tout it is attributed by him to Thomas Rogers. 
 
 Bt'RTON, PRINTER, GREAT VARMnl II:
 
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