On yon mountain's summit ærial,
Far above the clouds it grew,
Fann'd by purest gales ethereal,
Fed by bright celestial dew.

No voluptuous scents exhaling,
Deck'd with no luxurious dye,
Fiercest storms in vain assailing,
Blooming 'midst the wint❜ry sky.

Type of virtue's wreaths victorious, Flowering on the craggy height, Those who mount with ardour glorious Pay their labour with delight.

AN

ODE:

ON READING ONE UPON THE SAME SUBJECT BY

PROFESSOR RICHARDSON OF GLASGOW.

"Say, where just Heav'n was thy avenging brand!”

TICKELL.

WHAT

HAT voice awakes the soul-afflicting theme? That oft with anguish fill'd my youthful breast, When by the Mohawk's wild sequester'd stream Indignant grief my labouring heart opprest. Yes! there those generous tribes I saw, Who, sway'd alone by Nature's law,

The Author's childhood was passed at a small distance from the Mohawk river, and one part of it on the banks of lake Ontario ; from whence resulted an early and strong attachment to those generous nations who have always been beloved by persons any time resident among them.

Th' unerring paths of rectitude pursue;
Who cherish friendship's holy flame,

And valour's greenest laurel claim,
Of rigid faith inexorably true :

Saw them reluctant yield their poplar groves,
And flow'ry vales in wild luxuriance gay;
Forsake their fame, their friendship, and their loves,
When sunk beneath the European sway:
While peace and joy, with all their smiling train,
Recede before th' insatiate lust of gain.

Tho' there no lofty rocks aspire,

Whose caves with ductile silver glow;
Nor avarice bids those streams retire
That wont o'er golden sands to flow
Nor pearly banks enrich the seas,
Nor costly incense load the breeze.

Yet tho' no glittering ore allure

To these deep glooms the Christian race, Where the brown native urg'd secure

Through pathless woods the headlong chace; See lucre covet even the furry spoil

That wont to deck his limbs and crown his toil!

Ye sons of trade! whose fatal guile
Dishonours Britain's far-fam'd isle,
Who pour th' intoxicating draught

With dire disease and madness fraught,
With rage and all the furies in her train,
Ah! wherefore vainly talk of pow'rs above?
Yet blemish by your crimes the laws of truth and love.

Yet what are these? your lesser guilt,

Your towns, by fraud insidious built,
Your forts, that proudly low'ring round,
O'erlook those tracks of fruitful ground
Which guileful arts have made your home?
Ah! what are these to proud Iberia's crimes,
Which blot the records of enlighten'd times?

Each southern breeze seem'd warm with sighs,
From sad Potosi's injur'd race;

Where nations fallen, no more to rise,
The annals of our kind disgrace;

Where still the fierce insatiate love of gain
Shuts up the rigid heart of unrelenting Spain.

Behold their pow'rs proud fabric rise,
Whose tow'ring front insults the skies;

Two mighty columns bear the lofty roof,
Avarice and Cruelty the names

Which each conspicuous pillar claims;
Immoveable they seem, to heaven's dread thunder proof.

Where were ye then, ye sacred band ?
Ordain'd in every distant land

To spread salvation's joyful sound;
To chace the shades of night away,

And the bright throne of peace display,

Where Truth and Mercy sit, with olive crown'd?

Alas! deep sunk in superstition's gloom,

They bow beneath the tyranny of Rome.

But see! where Mercy's beams divine
Round blest CHIAPA'S mitre shine,
And with peculiar lustre grace

The champion of the suffering race;
Who, arm'd with sanctity and pray'rs,
With holy tears and zealous cries,
Like faithful ABDIEL kept the field alone,
And thro' the oppressive Papal mist,

With saintly valour could persist

To chace the demon Guilt even to his burning throne.