Page images



To guard his much-lov'd country's weal
From foreign or domestic foes,

Then gleam'd the watchful hero's steel,
And all the patriot's soul arose.
Then princes nobly sought renown
In suffering for the general good:-
How awful is the regal crown
When Valour gems it with his blood!

On Lutzen's plain, at break of day,
Th' imperial Walstein form'd his line:
The foe was nigh in dread array;

And, Sweden, that brave band was thine.
The trumpets sung, the cannon roar'd,
The gallant chargers paw'd the ground-
Led by Adolphus on they pour'd,
And spread destruction all around.

O Lutzen! thou didst drink full deep
The blood of many a soldier bold;
And Sweden's children yet doth weep,
When e'er the mournful tale is told.
Gustavus fell!-the monarch shed
His heart-stream on the fatal plain;
But Glory smooth'd the hero's bed,
And distant ages bless his reign.

Where has that patriot spirit fled
That fir'd the Dalecarlian swain,
When, from their cavern'd hills, he led
His friends against th' insulting Dane?
Is Charles's blood extinct? ah go
Brave Swede! to Narva-she can say
How felt the Russ the dreadful blow,
How gain'd the royal boy the day.

What dire effect from discord springs,
Unhappy Sweden now can tell;
Gone is her race of noble kings,

On whose great deeds she lov'd to dwell;

Her statesmen, sunk with servile fear,
Cringe at a vile usurper's throne;
Whilst patriots shed the secret tear,
And dare not make their sorrows known.

O grasp thy sword, thou hardy Swede!
Thy country needs thy slumbering might;
In her dear cause tis good to bleed---
Then dare th' intruder to the fight!
Unfurl thy banners, Swedish youth,
A groaning nation hopes in thee;
O tell the world this welcome truth-
Great Vasa's sons shall still be free!


If the following original lines are worthy of insertion in the Port Folio, they are

[blocks in formation]

The peaceful, solitary grot,
For Contemplation made.
Where, by the world forsook, forgot,
Thou heav'n-descended maid!
Enlarge, inspire my every thought:
Each virtuous impulse aid.
Ássist my sentiments to climb,
My every wish, to rise,
To thy celestial feunt sublime!
Beyond those vaulted skies;
Oft will I haunt some sacred gloom
By sober twilight gray;

Or, watch around the silent tomb
At solemn close of day:

Oft at this season will I rove

To grass-grown, mossy seat;

Or, to some spreading, lonesome grove
The hermit's calm retreat!

Or, on some wide extended plain
Entranced will I lie,

And view the splendid, starry train

That light the realms on high: What awful grandeur strikes the sight!

What grace and order join, 'Midst heaven's immeasurable height!

To speak a Power Divine.

Oft, will I wander to the rock
Whose lofty summit braves

The fierce tornado's thund'ring shock
And ocean's mountain waves;
When on the billowy, boist'rous tide
The trembling moon-beams beat,
Or gild the cliff's rough, rugged side,
The eagle's rude retreat:

And, often near the sandy shore

Will I enraptur'd stray,

To hear the distant surges' roar
In murmurs die away.

Or shipwreck'd mariner to save
Shall strive my dauntless soul,
Oft beating back the furious waves
Which round me threat'ning roll.
I, oft will range the desert plain
In contemplative mood,

And oft attend the house of pain,
The minister of good:

To sooth the wretch, embracing death
His sole relief from wo;

To cheer the sufferer's latest breath,
And Friendship's balm bestow:

Oft I unbar the felon's cell,

And heave for him, the sigh;

Where dark Despair and Anguish dwell,
Is felt my sympathy:

I love to ease the troubled breast

That feels the wound of sin,

And turn the mind, to seek the blest

Great Comforter within;

And while I thus my hours employ

To light the gloomy mind,

I catch a melancholy joy,

A consolation find;

To me more dear, congenial more
Than those from wealth that flow;
Ambition bright, nor fame, nor pow'r
Can such pure bliss bestow.

While, Melancholy! scenes like these
Afford thee pure delight,

Hope shall unbar the gates of peace

And joy, and endless light.

Philadelphia, June 4, 1810.




STRANGER! if thou canst shed a tear
Over departed worth, draw nigh,
Nor be ashamed to shed it here
Where Honesty and Valour lie.

Beneath this sod his manes slumber,
Whose memory claims a cordial praise,
That tribute which in measured number,
The bard, who knew his merit, pays.

Pause then, I pray, whoe'er thou art,
Whose vagrant feet this pathway tread,
And ponder on what, from the heart,
Now gushes to embalm the dead!

His was a courteous spirit, free
From churlishness of every kind,
And they who knew him knew that he,
Was plagu'd not with a bigot's mind.

The nicest sense of honour gaged
His actions by its golden square;
War with the feeble he ne'er waged,
Nor played one game he thought unfair.

His strict fidelity and zeal

Were known to all that saw him oft;

His heart each slight repulse could feel,
For it was gentle, warm, and soft.

All too that knew him will allow

How strong he felt the moral tie,
For, reader blush! he knew not how
To fabricate or spread a lie.

« PreviousContinue »