——"Lucy! this is only torture—
Here I may no longer pause—
Long I for my King have battled—
Now we've neither King nor laws.
With our shrewd exultant Victor,
Bootless now were strife of steel;
Looking on my bleeding country
Can I for her cease to feel?
All the land is grown outrageous:
Honour, worth, are hunted down:
Demons mock at our religion—
Idiots trample on the Crown.
Roaming o'er the billowy ocean,
Peace may greet me here unknown;
And, returning, civil tempests
May be fairly overblown.
Should aught menacing approach you,
To your noble Brothers, look:
Danger! did they ever dread it?
Insult! did they ever brook?
Guard your precious life, my Lucy!
Need I say—not your's alone!
Present—absent—living—dying—
I am—fear not—all your own!"
Starting from her arms, Sir Francis
Quick his noble steed bestrode:
And, with manly face averted,
Forward—seaward—fleetly rode.
Soon his vessell, anchor weighing,
To the sails the winds were true;
And with sad, not weak, delaying,
He bade his native land adieu!
Part II.
Far amidst the western ocean,
Lies a small and pleasant isle;
Fair with everlasting verdure,
Bright with summer's endless smile.