Inscribed to William Willtshire, Esq.
Heaven's noblest attribute! a richer gem
Than ever deck'd the monarch's diadem,
Art thou sweet mercy! yet alas, how rare,
Amid this world of crime, thy triumphs are!
How dimly burns thy pure etherial fire!
How seldom does its warmth the clay wrapt heart inspire!
Yet, now and then, upon the path of time,
It blazes forth with dazzling ray sublime;
Sheds o'er this vale of tears it's heaven lit flame;
And throws a halo round the human name.
See! on the desert's verge, those wasted forms,
Which life's expiring spark but feebly warms;
Wore down by pain, toil, care, and wretchedness,
And clad in squalid misery's abject dress:
And mark the hectic flush, the broken sigh,
And the wild glance that lights each sunken eye—
The thrilling pulse of hope—the withering fear
That checks the quick throb in its full career—
The eager, half form'd question, and the start,
As if the accents shook the bursting heart—
"Oh! Heavens! and will he come, and shall we be
Restor'd once more to life, and liberty?
Or must we in our galling bonds remain?—
But hush!—hark!—Lo a horseman on the plain!"
'Tis he! he comes, he pities, succours, saves
The captives from their chains, the dying from their graves.
Thine, Willtshire, was the deed; and oh! to thee
Is due the tribute of the brave and free!—
Noble, and generous! round thy brow shall twine
A fairer wreath, a laurel more divine,
Than that which e'er the blood stain'd hero wore:
Or science' sons in proudest moment wore.
And when the sculptur'd bust, the burnish'd urn,
The victor's trophies shall to dust return:
When gone are all that wealth and power bestow;
Thy fame, undimm'd, shall shine—thy worth shall brighter glow.
N.
[N. Y. Evening Post.
ON INTEMPERANCE.
——"But, at last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder."—Prov.
O, Take the maddening bowl away!
Remove the poisonous cup!
My soul is sick—its burning ray
Hath drunk my spirit up:
Take—take it from my loathing lip
Ere madness fires my brain;
Take—take it hence! nor let me sip
Its liquid death again.
O dash it on the thirsty earth,
For I will drink no more:
It cannot cheer the heart with mirth
That grief hath wounded sore;
For serpents wreath its sparkling brim,
And adders lurk below:
It hath no soothing charms for him
Who sinks oppress'd with wo.
Say not, "Behold its ruddy hue—
O press it to thy lips!"
For 'tis more deadly than the dew
That from the Upas drips;
It is more poisonous than the stream
Which deadly nightshade leaves:
Its joys are transient as the beam
That lights its ruddy waves.
Say not "It hath a powerful spell
To sooth the soul of care;"
Say not, "It calms the bosom's swell
And drives away despair!"
Art thou its votary?—ask thy soul—
Thy soul in misery deep—
Yea, ask thy conscience if the bowl
Can give eternal sleep!
Then, hence, away! thou deadly foe
Of happiness the whole;
Away—away!—I feel thy blow,
Thou palsy of the soul!
Henceforth I ask no more of thee,
Thou bane of Adam's race,
But to a heavenly fountain flee,
And drink the dews of grace.
FOR THE RURAL MAGAZINE.