Though liquid mountains roll'd on high,
And seem'd to wash the fiery sky;
Though forests ceased to shake or groan,
All rootless o'er the valleys strewn;
Though harvest's sheaves to man were lost,
Amongst the maddening billows toss'd;
Should houses to the ground be dash'd,
The inmates by the ruins smash'd;
Though lightnings scarce gave interval
To the dread thunder's deaf'ning roll;
Though cattle, mad with terror, gored
Whate'er the moment might afford,
Not sparing man, their natural lord ;
Were earth's good things all quite destroy'd,
And Nature in her course alloy'd;-
Yet, he who has a Christian's mind,
Could see all this, and be resign'd!

SONNET-TO BRITAIN.

O, SING, happy island-sing under thy blessings! Sure thou art the object of Heaven's caressings! There's no nation on earth can boast of such glory

No kingdom terrestrial can tell thy proud story! Thou art blessed with freedom, religious and civil; There's no power in the world dares with thee to cavil.

Mongst thy lovely scenery thy hardy sons wander, As free as the Sun shines on all, in his grandeur. Thy peasants are free as the king that is reigning, Each of them the baseness of slavery disdaining! No one o'er another has power of presiding,

On ruin of his neighbour to wealth proudly riding:

No, they have freedom, nor ever shall they sell it
Twas the Deity's hand did on them entail it.
Thy sweet, lovely daughters, for beauty excelling,
Who walk the rich meadows when wild flowers
are smelling;

Or 'neath some grove's umbrage, at high-day reclining,

They cover their roses from Phoebus, bright shining,

Their modesty mildly their beauties concealing: Their breasts are the soft seats of virtue and feel

ing.

Still may all their graces continue to blossom, And balmy Contentment preside in each bosom!

LUCIA;

A Legend of the Fourteenth Century.

By frightful dreams waken'd, pale Lucia rose, And out for the tomb of her husband she goes: A cloak round her shoulders was carelessly thrown, The night-wind, loud raving, made horrible moan!

'Twas the ghost-walking hour-the centre of night;

All gloom was the atmosphere-stars gave no light:

While quick o'er the mountains the blue lightning gleam'd,

And smooth-flowing Ythan a blaze by it seem'd!

The blast made the church-bell, unholy, to clang, The drear owl of darkness most dolefully sang ; Yet all these unheeded by Lucia were,

For king in her bosom reign'd Tyrant Despair!

At the grave of her dearest she flung herself down, All torn were her ringlets of rich glossy brown; Her hand grasp'd a dagger-her bosom was bare, In grief-broken accents she offer'd this prayer:

"Kind Heaven! relieve me from what I endure !
Oh, send for my sorrow the one only cure!
Since thou hast seen fit thus to load me with grief,
That drives me to death as my only relief;

"Then strengthen my hands to commit their last deed

My languishing bosom to kindly make bleed! For what does it matter by whose steel I die, Since Anguish unbearable wields it not I !

66

My husband! my husband! I'll soon be with

you

To all earthly objects I bid my adieu !

Nor mourn ye, my dear friends, for Lucia gone, By the torments of sorrow no longer to groan !”

Then into her bosom she plunged the dart,
And twisted it round in the gore of her heart !—
'Twas thus died Lucia, the young and the fair!
No beauty in Methlic could with her compare.