INSCRIBED ON THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.

UNCLASP me, Stranger; and unfold,
With trembling care, my leaves of gold,
Rich in gothic portraiture-

If yet, alas, a leaf endure.

In RABIDA's monastic fane

I cannot ask, and ask in vain.
The language of CASTILE I speak;
Mid many an Arab, many a Greek,
Old in the days of CHARLEMAIN;
When minstrel-music wandered round,
And Science, waking, blessed the sound.

No earthly thought has here a place, The cowl let down on every face;

Yet here, in consecrated dust,
Here would I sleep, if sleep I must.
From GENOA when COLUMBUS came,

(At once her glory and her shame)
'Twas here he caught the holy flame.
'Twas here the generous vow he made;
His banners on the altar laid.

Here, tempest-worn and desolate,*
A Pilot, journeying thro' the wild,
Stopt to solicit at the gate
A pittance for his child.

* We have an interesting account of his first appearance in Spain, that Country which was so soon to be the theatre of his glory. According to the testimony of Garcia Fernandez, the Physician of Palos, a sea-faring man, accompanied by a very young boy, stopped one day at the gate of the Convent of La Rábida and asked of the porter a little bread and water for his child. While they were receiving this humble refreshment, the Prior, Juan Perez, happening to pass by, was struck with the look and manner of the stranger, and, entering into conversation with him, soon learnt the particulars of his story. The stranger was Columbus; the boy was his son Diego; and, but for this accidental interview, America might have remained long undiscovered: for it was to the zeal of Juan Perez that he was finally indebted for the accomplishment of his great purpose. See Irving's History of Columbus.

'Twas here, unknowing and unknown, He stood upon the threshold-stone.

But hope was his-a faith sublime,

That triumphs over place and time;

And here, his mighty labour done,
And his course of glory run,

Awhile as more than man he stood,

So large the debt of gratitude!

One hallowed morn, methought, I felt

As if a soul within me dwelt !

But who arose and gave to me

The sacred trust I keep for thee,

And in his cell at even-tide

Knelt before the cross and died—

Inquire not now. His name no more
Glimmers on the chancel-floor,

Near the lights that ever shine

Before ST. MARY'S blessed shrine.

To me one little hour devote, And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee; Read in the temper that he wrote,

And may his gentle spirit guide thee!

WRITTEN IN

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.*

OCTOBER 10, 1806.

WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie. †
There sleeps the dust of FOX for ever gone;
How near the Place where late his glory shone!
And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful Dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,

Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle,
That, like a Darkness, filled the solemn Pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,

Of those, that loved Him living, mourned Him dead ;

* After the Funeral of the Right Hon. CHARLES JAMES FOX.

Venez voir le pen qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, &c.—Bossuet Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon.

Of those the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dared be singularly good;

All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own;
And nothing wanting-but Himself alone!*

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name;
Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame?
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead!
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed?
(Such as He shed on NELSON's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave!)
In Him, resentful of another's wrong,

The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too?

What tho' with War the madding Nations rung,
'Peace,' when He spoke, was ever on his tongue!
Amid the frowns of Power, the tricks of State,
Fearless, resolved, and negligently great!

In vain malignant vapours gathered round;

He walked, erect, on consecrated ground.

The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day,
Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!

* Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.-Ibid.