I.
I know a Song, the magick of whose power
Can save the Warrior in destruction's hour;
From the fierce foe his falling vengeance charm,
And wrest the weapon from his nervous arm.
II.
I know a Song, which, when in bonds I lay,
Broke from the grinding chain its links away.
While the sweet notes their swelling numbers rolled,
Back flew the bolts, the trembling gates unfold;
Free as the breeze the elastic limbs advance,
Course the far field, or braid the enlivening dance.
III.
I know a Song, to mend the heart design'd,
Quenching the fiery passions of mankind;
When lurking hate and deadly rage combine,
To charm the serpent of revenge is mine;
By heavenly verse the furious deed restrain,
And bid the lost affections live again.
IV.
I know a Song, which when the wild winds blow
To bend the monarchs of the forests low,
If to the lay my warbling voice incline,
Waking its various tones with skill divine,
Hush'd are the gales, the spirit of the storm
Calms his bleak breath, and smooths his furrow'd form,
The day look up, the dripping hills serene
Through the faint clouds exalt their sparkling green.
Cambria.
Mo. Anthology, IV-602, Nov. 1807, Boston.
THE SQUEAKING GHOST.
A tale imitated from the German, according to the true and genuine principles of the horrifick.
The wind whistled loud! farmer Dobbin's wheat stack
Fell down! The rain beat 'gainst his door!
As he sat by the fire he heard the roof crack!
The cat 'gan to mew and to put up her back!
And the candle burnt—just as before!
The farmer exclaimed with a piteous sigh,
"To get rid of this curs'd noise and rout,
"Wife gi'e us some ale." His dame straight did cry,
Hemed and coughed three times three, then made this reply—
"I can't mun! Why? 'cause the cask's out!"
By the side of the fire sat Roger Gee-ho
Who had finished his daily vocation,
With Cicely, whose eyes were as black as a Sloe,
A damsel indeed who had never said No,
And because she ne'er had an occasion!
All these were alarmed by the loud piercing cries,
And were thrown in a terrible state,
Till open the door, with wide staring eyes,
They found to their joy, no less than surprise,
"'Twas the old sow fast stuck in a gate!"
Charms of Lit. in Prose and Verse, p. 350, 1808, Trenton.