"Tis when the Med'terranean laves
Hot Afric's shore with tranquil waves,
Or midst those mighty seas which roll
From India tow'rds the Southern pole;
'Tis then while gentle winds prevail,
The Nautilus extends his sail;
But if fierce storms with mighty sweep,
Ruffle the surface of the deep,
Or a strange object hovering near,
Awake the little sailor's fear,
Quickly descending far below,
He shuns the tempest or the foe.
"Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,
You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again;
Like the door on its hinges so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.
A little more sleep and a little more slumber,
So he wastes all his days and his hours without number; And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorns and the thistles grew higher and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.
Then said I to myself, here's a lesson for me,
That man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for the care of my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.
THE LADY-BIRD,
WHICH CAME INTO THE PARLOUR.
Oh! lady-bird, lady-bird, why dost thou roam
So far from thy children, so distant from home?
Why dost thou, who canst revel all day in the air,
Who the sweets of the grove and the garden couldst share,
In the fold of a leaf who canst form thee a bower,
And a palace enjoy in the tube of a flower,-
Ah! why, simple lady-bird, why dost thou venture
The dwellings of man so familiar to enter?
Too soon you will find that your trust is misplaced,
When by some cruel child you are wantonly chased;
And your bright scarlet coat, so bespotted with black,
May be torn by his barbarous hands from your back-
Oh! then you'll regret you were tempted to rove
From the tall climbing hop, or the hazel's thick grove,
And will fondly remember each harbour and tree
Where lately you wandered contented and free;
Then fly, simple lady-bird!-fly away home,
No more from your nest and your children to roam.
Supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk, a shipwrecked sailor, who lived four years on the uninhabited island of Juan Fernandez.
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh solitude! where are the charms
Which sages have seen in thy face:
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this desolate place.
I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh! had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again:
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth;
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasures untold
Reside in that heavenly word,
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell,
These valleys and rocks never heard;
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Never smiled when the Sabbath appeared.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial, endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But alas! recollection at hand,
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place,
And mercy (encouraging thought!)
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks fast, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there house and all-together..
Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides,
Of storms or other harms besides-of weather. Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much-displeasure.
Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself, has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own-whole treasure.
Thus hermit-like his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds—the faster.
Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
He and his house are so combined,
If finding it, he failed to find- its master.
From the mighty Pacific, with soft-swelling waves,
That a thousand bright islands eternally laves,
'Mid rocks of red coral, with shell-fish abounding,
The notes of the parrot and pigeon resounding,
Crown'd with groves of banana and taper bamboo,
Rise the gay sunny shores of the isles of Pelew.
From China returning with silk and with tea,
The tall English vessel sails over the sea;
Ah! look how she heaves! on the rock she is stranded,
But boats are thrown out, and the sailors are landed.
What black men are those in their slender canoe,
Who gaze with such wonder ?-The men of Pelew.
How kindly they welcome the sailors on shore,
And yams and sweet cocoa-nuts bring from their store;
But vain every effort to soften their anguish,
For home, distant home, the poor Englishmen languish :
They build a stout ship, they sail off from Pelew,
And away with the strangers sails young Prince Leeboo.
O what is his rapture, and what his surprise,
When in gay busy London he opens his eyes!
Fine shops, houses, coaches, O joy beyond measure!
Yes, yes, my dear friends shall partake in my pleasure.
Fine clothes, coaches, horses, I'll bear to Pelew,
What wonder for them, what delight for Leeboo!
Fond projects! in vain shall his father explore
The wide shipless wave, he shall see him no more.
O chide not the English thy darling detaining,
And chide not thy son 'mid the strangers remaining!
Know, Death has arrested him, far from Pelew,
And the strangers have wept o'er the gentle Leeboo!
THE PIEDMONTESE AND HIS MARMOT. From my dear native moorlands, for many a day Thro' fields and thro' cities I've wander'd away, Tho' I merrily sing, yet forlorn is my lot; I'm a poor Piedmontese, and I show a marmot. This pretty marmot, in a mountain's steep side Made a burrow, himself and his young ones to hide. The bottom they cover'd with moss and with hay, And stopp'd up the entrance, and snugly they lay.
|