A STATUE OF THE LATE DUKE OF BEDFORD.
BY THE RIGHT HON. RICHARD FITZPATRICK.
HERE let no symbols of destructive war,
No blood-stain'd conqueror's triumphal car,
No sculptur'd trophies, to the pensive mind,
Retrace the miseries of human kind;
Where happier emblems celebrate his worth
Who liv'd, not to despoil, but bless the earth!
With anxious care, and deep research to scan
That first of sciences-the GOOD OF MAN;
To cherish CULTURE's progress thro' the land;
Stretch forth to INDUSTRY a fost'ring hand;
To feel, on principles severely just,
In rank pre-eminent, a sacred trust;
To prize in riches but their power to grant
Reward to MERIT and relief to WANT;
Praise of such high desert, say, who shall claim?
And, hark! a nation's voice re-echoes-RUSSELL'S
How, tho' the annals of their country, shine
The unfading honours of his patriot line!
Disastrous days of civil strife they saw,
When vaulting POWER o'erleap'd the bounds of law:
Their temp'rate wisdom strove, alas! in vain,
Those threat'ning flames of DISCORD to contain,
Which soon blaz'd forth:-the Fiend's infernal brand
Spread devastation thro' the fated land;
And PEACE, from ALBION's mangled bosom driven,
With virtuous BEDFORD, wing'd her way to heaven.
Again, when POWER's unquench'd, and quenchless
thirst,
The sacred boundaries of RIGHT had burst,
Another RUSSELL Freedom's champion stood,
Nor spar'd for her, nor wish'd to spare, his blood;
But died, Oh, victim of perverted laws!
An unrepining martyr in her cause.
Far happier thou! Thy more auspicious day,
Of lawful Rulers own'd the chasten'd sway;
Who, on the downfal of a Tyrant's throne,
Had fix'd the just foundation of their own.
But, ah! too soon was veil'd in endless night
The accomplish'd promise of a dawn so bright.
All-ruling Power! by whose mysterious doom
LIFE's fleeting tenants sink into the tomb,
With lavish NATURE's richest gifts adorn'd,
Still must a RUSSELL be belov'd and mourn'd.
Cease, fond complaint! tho' man's precarious.
breath
Yield, unresisting, to the shaft of DEATH,
The lasting good a PATRIOT's cares achieve,
The sigh which millions o'er his ashes heave,
The bright example of that generous mind,
Whose godlike impulse was to serve mankind,
Bequests to unborn ages shall remain,
And mark-that VIRTUE HAS NOT LIV'D IN VAIN.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she might be ;
Her sails from Heav'n receiv'd no motion-
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign, or sound of their shock,
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock:
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell,
The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had floated that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung,
And louder, and louder, it warning rung.
When the rock was hid by the tempest's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And bless'd the Priest of Aberbrothok.
The sun, in heav'n, shone so gay-
All things were joyful on that day:
The sea birds scream'd, as they sported round,
And there was pleasure in their sound.
The float of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck, on the ocean green;
Sir RALPH, the Rover, walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the chearing power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful, to excess-
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the bell and float-
Quoth he, my men, put out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Priest of Aberbrothok.
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir RALPH bent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float.
Down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose, and burst around.
Quoth Sir RALPH, the next who comes to the Rock,
Will not bless the Priest of Aberbrothok.
Sir RALPH, the Rover, sail'd away;
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich, with plunder'd store,
He steers his course to Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They could not see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is, they see no land;
Quoth Sir RALPH, it will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.
Canst hear, said one, the breakers roar;
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.
Now, where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.
They hear no sound, the swell is strong,
Tho' the wind hath fallen they drift along;
"Till the vessel strikes with a shiv'ring shock-
Oh, CHRIST! it is the Inchcape Rock!
Sir RALPH, the Rover, tore his hair ;
He curst himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear;
A sound as if with the Inchcape bell,
The devil below was ringing his knell.
On a Lady who beat her Husband.
COME hither, Sir John, my picture is here,
What think you, my love, don't it strike you?
I can't say it does, just at present, my dear,
But I think it soon will, it's so like you.
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