"O beauteous pilgrim, why dost thou From bower and palace flee? So soft thy voice, so sweet thy look, "Like Noah's dove, no rest I find; The din of battle roars Where once my steps I loved to print "For ever in my frighted ears The savage war-whoop sounds; And, like a panting hare, I fly Before the opening hounds." "Pilgrim, those spiry groves among, The mansions thou mayst see, Where cloistered saints chaunt holy hymns, Sure such would shelter thee !” "Those roofs with trophied banners stream, There martial hymns resound; And, shepherd, oft from crosiered hands This breast has felt a wound." "Ah! gentle pilgrim, glad would I With thee to share my scanty lot, "But lo, along the vine-clad steep, The gleam of armour shines; His scattered flock, his straw-roofed hut, The helpless swain resigns. "And now the smouldering flames aspire; Their lurid light I see; I hear the human wolves approach : I cannot shelter thee.” ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MARTINEAU, SENR. YE who around this venerated bier In pious anguish pour the tender tear, Mourn not!-'Tis Virtue's triumph, Nature's doom, 216 ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MARTINEAU, SENR. Yet mourn!-for sweet the filial sorrows flow, No tears you shed for patient love abused, The treasured birthright of the spreading line! ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MARTINEAU, SENR. 217 -For me, as o'er the frequent grave I bend, A boding voice, methinks, in Fancy's ear Speaks from the tomb, and cries "Thy friends are here!" |