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 voice awakes the soul-afflicting theme? * 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; And valour's greenest laurel claim, Saw them reluctant yield their poplar groves, While peace and joy, with all their smiling train, Tho' there no lofty rocks aspire, Whose caves with ductile silver glow; 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 With dire disease and madness fraught, Ah! wherefore vainly talk of pow'rs above? Yet what are these? your lesser guilt,- Each southern breeze seem'd warm with sighs, Where nations fallen, no more to rise, Where still the fierce insatiate love of gain Behold their pow'rs proud fabric rise, Whose tow'ring front insults the skies; Two mighty columns bear the lofty roof, Which each conspicuous pillar claims; Where were ye then, ye sacred band? To spread salvation's joyful sound ; 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 The champion of the suffering race; Like faithful ABDIEL kept the field alone, With saintly valour could persist To chace the demon Guilt even to his burning throne. Where are your lyres, ye sons of song? And consecrate to this blest theme your lays: And has no energetic tongue Charm'd Virtue's ear with good LAS CASA's praise? In that mild region of the sky, Where dove-ey'd Pity dwells on high, From golden harps his praise melodious flows; Of power to soothe even slavery's bitter woes? Yes! from thy banks dear native Clyde, Nor think they wept and bled in vain, Their matchless woes, and blcst CHIAPA's praise ! |