She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore,

Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze,

Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze:
Poor widowed wretch! 'twas here she wept in vain,
Till Memory fled her agonizing brain;—

But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe,
Ideal peace, that truth could ne'er bestow;
Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam,
And aimless HOPE delights her darkest dream.

Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky,

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,

Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn

To hail the bark that never can return;

And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep

That constant love can linger on the deep.

And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue;

Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore,
But found not pity when it erred no more.
Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye
Th' unfeeling proud one looks-and passes by,
Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam,

Scorned by the world and left without a home

Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray,
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way,
Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen
The blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green,
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while—
Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm!
There should my hand no stinted boon assign
To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine!-
That generous wish can soothe unpitied care,
And HOPE half mingles with the poor man's prayer.

HOPE! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind,

Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see

The boundless fields of rapture yet to be;
I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan,
And learn the future by the past of man.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime;
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along,
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song,

Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk,
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray,
And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day;
Each wandering genius of the lonely glen
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men,
And silent watch, on woodland heights around,
The village curfew as it tolls profound.

In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done,
That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun,
Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane,

Wild Obi flies-the veil is rent in twain.

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam,

Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines,

Truth shall pervade th' unfathomed darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of despair.-
Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed.
Fierce in his eye the fire of valor burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns.

Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while,
And HOPE, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,

When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars

Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,

Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous Horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!

Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-
Oh Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!—-
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live!—with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed
His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death,—the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!--

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew :