AN INSCRIPTION

IN THE CRIMEA.

SHEPHERD, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner,
Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst,
Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone,
Arched, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse,
This iron cup chained for the general use,
And these rude seats of earth within the grove,
Were given by FATIMA. Borne hence a bride,
'Twas here she turned from her beloved sire,
To see his face no more.* Oh, if thou canst,
('Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers;
And with a drop of this sweet water fill
The two small cells scooped in the marble there,
That birds may come and drink upon his grave,
Making it holy †

There is a beautiful story, delivered down to us from antiquity, which will here perhaps occur to the reader.

Icarius, when he gave Penelope in marriage to Ulysses, endeavoured to persuade him to dwell in Lacedæmon; and, when all he urged was to no purpose, he entreated his daughter to remain with him. When Ulysses set out with his bride for Ithaca, the old man followed the chariot, till, overcome by his importunity, Ulysses consented that it should be left with Penelope to decide whether she would proceed with him or return with her father. It is related, says Pausanias, that she made no reply, but that she covered herself with her veil; and that Icarius, perceiving at once by it that she inclined to Ulysses, suffered her to depart with him.

A statue was afterwards placed by her father as a memorial in that part of the road where she had covered herself with her veil. It was still standing there in the days of Pausanias, and was called the statue of Modesty.

† A Turkish superstition.

AN INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE

DEDICATED TO THE GRACES.*

APPROACH with reverence. There are those within,
Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove,
From them flow all the decencies of Life;

Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self
Admired not loved; and those on whom They smile,
Great though they be, and wise and beautiful,
Shine forth with double lustre.

WRITTEN IN 1834.

WELL, when her day is over, be it said
That, though a speck on the terrestrial globe,
Found with long search and in a moment lost,
She made herself a name a name to live
While science, eloquence, and song divine,
And wisdom, in self-government displayed,
And valour, such as only in the Free,
Shall among men be honoured.

Every sea

Was covered with her sails, in every port
Her language spoken; and, where'er you went,
Exploring, to the east, or to the west,
Even to the rising or the setting day,

Her arts and laws and institutes were there,

At Woburn-Abbey.

Moving with silent and majestic march,
Onward and onward, where no pathway was;
There her adventurous sons, like those of old,
Founding vast empires*-empires in their turn
Destined to shine thro' many a distant age
With sun-like splendour.

Wondrous was her wealth,

The world itself her willing tributary;

Yet, to accomplish what her soul desired,
All was as nothing; and the mightiest kings,
Each in his hour of strife exhausted, fallen,
Drew strength from Her, their coffers from her own
Filled to o'erflowing. When her fleets of war
Had swept the main; when not an adverse prow,
From pole to pole, far as the sea-bird flies,
Ruffled the tide; and they themselves were gone,
Gone from the eyes and from the minds of men,
Their dreadful errands so entirely done-
Up rose her armies; on the land they stood,
Fearless, erect; and in an instant smote
Him with his legions.†

*North America speaks for itself; and so indeed may we say of India, when such a territory is ours in a region so remote-"a territory larger and more populous than Great Britain and France and Spain, and Germany and Italy together;" when a company of merchants, from such small beginnings, have established a dominion so absolute, "where Trajan never penetrated and where the phalanx of Alexander refused to proceed" — a dominion over a people for ages civilized and cultivated, while we were yet in the woods.

† Alluding to the battle of Waterloo. The illustrious Man who commanded there on our side, and who, in his anxiety to do justice to others, never fails to forget himself, said many years afterwards to the Author with some agitation, when relating an occurrence of that day, "It was a battle of giants!"

Yet ere long 'twas hers,

Great as her triumphs, to eclipse them all,

To do what none had done, none had conceived,
An act how glorious, making joy in heaven!
When, such her prodigality, condemned.
To toil and toil, alas, how hopelessly,
Herself in bonds, for ages unredeemed-
As with a god-like energy she sprung,
All else forgot, and, burdened as she was,
Ransomed the African.

AN INCRIPTION

FOR STRATFIELD SAYE.

THESE are the groves a grateful people gave
For noblest service; and from age to age,
May they, to such as come with listening ear,
Relate the story! Sacred is their shade;
Sacred the calm they breathe-oh, how unlike
What in the field 'twas his so long to know;
Where many a mournful, many an anxious thought,
Troubling, perplexing, on his weary mind
Preyed, ere to arms the morning-trumpet called:
Where, till the work was done and darkness fell,
Blood ran like water, and, go where thou wouldst
Death in thy path-way met thee, face to face.

For on, regardless of himself, He went

And, by no change elated or depressed,

Fought, till he won the' imperishable wreath,
Leading the conquerors captive; on he went,
Bating nor heart nor hope, whoe'er opposed;
The greatest warriors, in their turn, appearing;
The last that came, the greatest of them all-
One scattering fear, as born but to subdue,
And, even in rout, in ruin, scattering fear;
So long, till warred on by the elements,
Invincible; the mightiest of the earth!

When such the service, what the recompence?
What was not due to him if he survived?
Yet, if I err not, a renown as fair,

And fairer still, awaited him at home;

When in his place, day after day, he stood, The party-zeal, that round him raged, restraining; - His not to rest, while his the strength to serve.

REFLECTIONS.

MAN to the last is but a froward child;
So eager for the future, come what may,
And to the present so insensible!

Oh, if he could in all things as he would,
Years would as days and hours as moments be;
He would, so restless is his spirit here,
Give wings to Time, and wish his life away!

ALAS, to our discomfort and his own,
Oft are the greatest talents to be found