"Alas," said the monarch, "your project is vain:
But little is left of her foreign domain;
And, scattered about in the liquid expanse,
That little is left to the mercy of France.
"However, we 'll lift them, and give her fair play."
And soon in the scale with their mistress they lay;
But the gods were confounded and struck with surprise,
And Vulcan could hardly believe his own eyes:
For, such was the purpose and guidance of fate,
Her foreign dominions diminished her weight;
By which it appeared, to Britain's disaster,
Her foreign possessions were changing their master.
Then, as he replaced them, said Jove with a smile, "COLUMBIA shall never be ruled by an isle;
But vapours and darkness around her may rise,
And tempests conceal her a-while from our eyes.
"So locusts in Egypt their squadrons display, And, rising, disfigure the face of the day;
So the moon, at her full, has a frequent eclipse,
And the sun in the ocean diurnally dips.
"Then cease your endeavours, ye vermin of Britain"
(And here in derision their island he spit on):
"T is madness to seek what you never can find,
Or to think of uniting what Nature disjoined.
"But still you may flutter awhile with your wings,
And spit out your venom and brandish your stings:
Your hearts are as black and as bitter as gall,
A curse to mankind, and a blot on the BALL."
THE WILD HONEY SUCKLE
Fair flower that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.
By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by:
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.
Smit with those charms that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died-nor were those flowers more gay,-
The flowers that did in Eden bloom:
Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.
THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND
In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep:
The posture that we give the dead
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
Not so the ancients of these lands:
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.
His imaged birds and painted bowl,
And venison for a journey dressed,
Bespeak the nature of the soul—
ACTIVITY that knows no rest.
His bow for action ready bent,
And arrows with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the old ideas gone.
On a fine Sunday morning I mounted my steed,
And southward from HARTFORD had meant to proceed.
My baggage was stow'd in a cart very snug,
Which RANGER, the gelding, was destined to lug;
With his harness and buckles he loom'd very grand,
And was drove by young DARBY, a lad of the land-
On land or on water most handy was he,
A jockey on shore, and a sailor at sea;
He knew all the roads, he was so very keen,
And the Bible by heart, at the age of fifteen.
As thus I jogg'd on, to my saddle confined,
With Ranger and Darby a distance behind,
At last in full view of a steeple we came,
With a cock on the spire (I suppose he was game;
A dove in the pulpit may suit your grave people,
But always remember-a cock on the steeple).
Cries Darby, "Dear master, I beg you to stay;
Believe me, there 's danger in driving this way:
Our deacons on Sundays have power to arrest
And lead us to church-if your honour thinks best;
Though still I must do them the justice to tell
They would choose you should pay them the fine, full as well."
"The fine," said I, "Darby, how much may it be-
A shilling or sixpence? Why, now, let me see;
Three shillings are all the small pence that remain,
And to change a half joe would be rather PROFANE.
Is it more than three shillings, the fine that you speak on?
What say you, good Darby, will that serve the deacon ?"
"Three shillings!” cried Darby, “why, master, you're jesting!
Let us luff while we can and make sure of our westing.
Forty shillings, excuse me, is too much to pay-
It would take my month's wages-that 's all I 've to say.
By taking this road that inclines to the right,
The squire and the sexton may bid us good night:
If once to old Ranger I give up the rein,
The parson himself may pursue us in vain."
"Not I, my good Darby," I answer'd the lad.
"Leave the church on the left? they would think we were mad.
I would sooner rely on the heels of my steed,
And pass by them all like a Jehu indeed.
As long as I'm able to lead in the race,
Old Ranger, the gelding, will go a good pace:
As the deacon pursues, he will fly like a swallow,
And you in the cart must undoubtedly follow."
Then, approaching the church, as we pass'd by the door,
The sexton peep'd out, with a saint or two more.
A deacon came forward and waved us his hat,
A signal to drop him some money-mind that!
"Now, Darby," I halloo'd, "be ready to skip!
Ease off the curb bridle-give Ranger the whip!
While you have the rear, and myself lead the way,
No doctor or deacon shall catch us this day."
By this time the deacon had mounted his poney,
And chaced for the sake of our souls and our money.
The saint, as he followed, cried, "Stop them, halloo!"
As swift as he followed, as swiftly we flew.
"Ah master," said Darby, "I very much fear
We must drop him some money to check his career:
He is gaining upon us and waves with his hat-
There's nothing, dear master, will stop him but that.
Remember the Beaver (you well know the fable),
Who, flying the hunters as long as he 's able,
When he finds that his efforts can nothing avail,
But death and the puppies are close at his tail,
Instead of desponding at such a dead lift,
He bites off their object, and makes a free gift:
Since fortune all hope of escaping denies,
Better give them a little than lose the whole prize."
But scarce had he spoke when we came to a place
Whose muddy condition concluded the chace: Down settled the cart, and old Ranger stuck fast. "Aha!" said the Saint, "Have I catch'd ye at last?" Cætera desunt.
THE REPUBLICAN GENIUS OF EUROPE
Emperors and kings! in vain you strive
Your torments to conceal.
The age is come that shakes your thrones,
Tramples in dust despotic crowns,
And bids the sceptre fail.
In western worlds the flame began;
From thence to France it flew;
Through Europe now it takes its way,
Beams an insufferable day,
And lays all tyrants low.
Genius of France, pursue the chace
Till Reason's laws restore
Man to be Man, in every clime-
That Being, active, great, sublime,
Debas'd in dust no more.
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