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always at the post of danger. The troops which he commanded had been little used to war, and shrank from a close encounter with the veteran soldiery of France. It was necessary that their leader should show them how battles were to be won."

William was not apt to form strong friendships, but the sincerity of the attachments that he contracted was undoubted. The friendship subsisting between him and a Dutch gentleman, "named Bentinck," has been often mentioned. Mr. Macaulay tells the circumstances more concisely than they have been hitherto stated. We wish, indeed, that he had introduced more copious extracts from the monarch's correspondence with the founder in England of the Bentinck family. Few retainers have shown more attachment to their chieftain than Bentinck felt and acted towards his prince; and his fealty before death in every form, in the battle field, and in the chamber of a loathsome disease-was richly rewarded. We quote the story here, because the family of the Dutch nobleman has attained the highest place amongst the English aristocracy, in a comparatively short period. They gave a governor to India, a man of enlarged and liberal views, whose efforts to advance the native races were, probably, never fully appreciated. The late Lord George Bentinck became suddenly the leader of the country party; and no man, with a cause absolutely unpopular at the time, ever acquired more extensive influence out or in the House of Commons, in the two or three sessions to which his active Parliamentary life was confined:

was.

His es

||tations, the failure of his melons, the state of his stud, his wish to procure an easy pad nag for his wife, his vexation at learning that one of his household, after ruining a girl of good family, refused to marry her, his fits of sea sickness, his coughs, his headaches, his devotional moods, his gratitude for the Divine protection after a great escape, his struggles to submit himself to the Divine will after a disaster, are described with an amiable garrulity hardly to have been expected from the most discreet and sedate statesman of the age. Still more remarkable is the careless effusion of his tenderness, and the brotherly interest which he takes in his friend's domestic felicity. When an heir is born to Bentinck, he will live, I hope,' says William, to be as good a fellow as you are; and, if I should have a son, our children will love each other, I hope, as we have done.' Through life he continues to regard the little Bentincks with paternal kindness. He calls them by endearing diminutives: he takes charge of them in their father's absence, and, though vexed at being forced to refuse them any pleasure, will not suffer them to go on a hunting party, where there would be risk of a push from a stag's horn, or to sit up late at a riotous supper. When their mother is taken ill during her husband's absence, William, in the midst of business of the highest moment, finds time to send off several expresses in one day, with short notes containing intelligence of her state. On one occasion, when she is pronounced out of danger after a severe attack, the Prince breaks forth into fervent expressions of gratitude to God. 'I write,' he says, 'with tears of joy in my eyes.' There is a singular charm in such letters, penned by a man whose irresistible energy and inflexible firmness extorted the respect of his enemies, whose cold and ungracious demeanour repelled the attachment of almost all his partisans, and whose mind was occupied by gigantic schemes which have changed the face of the world..

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His kindness was not misplaced. Bentinck was early pronounced by Temple to be the best and truest servant that ever prince had the good fortune to possess, and continued through life to merit that honourable character. The friends were indeed made for each other. William wanted neither a guide nor a flatterer. Having a firm and just reliance on his own judgment, he was not partial to counsellors who dealt much in suggestions and objections. At the same time he had too much discernment, and too much elevation of mind, to be gratified by sycophancy. The confidant of such a prince ought to be a man, not of inventive genius or commanding spirit, but brave and faithful, capable of executing orders punctually, of keeping secrets inviolably, of observing facts vigilantly, and of reporting them truly; and such a man was Bentinck."

Highest in his favour stood a gentleman of his household named Bentinck, sprung from a noble Batavian race, and destined to be the founder of one of the great patrician houses of England. The fidelity of Bentinck had been tried by no common test. It was while the United Provinces were struggling for existence against the French power that the young Prince on whom all their hopes were fixed was seized by the small-pox. That disease had been fatal to many members of his family, and at first wore, in his case, a peculiarly malignant aspect. The public consternation was great. The streets of the Hague were crowded from daybreak to sunset by persons anxiously asking how his Highness At length his complaint took a favourable turn. cape was attributed partly to his own singular equanimity, and The last sentence of this extract is almost literally partly to the intrepid and indefatigable friendship of Bentinck. applicable to the descendant of William's friend. We From the hands of Bentinck alone William took food and medi- do not know that the most ardent admirers of the late cine. By Bentinck alone William was lifted from his bed and Lord George Bentinck claimed for him the possession laid down in it. "Whether Bentinck slept or not while I was of "inventive genius." His bitterest opponents could ill,' said William to Temple, with great tenderness, 'I know not. But this I know, that, through sixteen days and nights, I never not deny that he possessed in a very remarkable degree once called for anything but that Bentinck was instantly at my all the other qualities recorded by Mr. Macaulay as side.' Before the faithful servant had entirely performed his task, appertaining to his ancestor. He was brave and he had himself caught the contagion. Still, however, he bore up faithful. He served Canning well, and punctually exeagainst drowsiness and fever till his master was pronounced concuted his orders. He kept the secrets of that great valescent. Then, at length, Bentinck asked leave to go home. It was time: for his limbs would no longer support him. He statesman inviolably. He observed facts vigilantly. was in great danger, but recovered, and, as soon as he left his He reported them truly. Like his ancestor, he was bed, hastened to the army, where, during many sharp campaigns, capable of forming strong friendships; and the comhe was ever found, as he had been in peril of a different kind, bination between him and Mr. D'Israeli was peculiarly formidable, from the genius of the one, and the research and perseverance of the other partner.

close to William's side.

"Such was the origin of a friendship as warm and pure as any that ancient or modern history records. The descendants of Bentinck still preserve many letters written by William to their ancestor; and it is not too much to say that no person who has not studied those letters can form a correct notion of the Prince's character. He whom even his admirers generally accounted the most distant and frigid of men here forgets all distinctions of

We may be censured for lingering too long with Mr. Macaulay's work. In some measure the censure is merited from those who have not yet read the volumes. Others, who are acquainted with their fascirank, and pours out all his thoughts with the ingenuousness of a nating qualities, will understand why we have yielded schoolboy. He imparts without reserve secrets of the highest to a temptation that they did not resist. The work moment. He explains with perfect simplicity vast designs affect- has not those outbursts of eloquence, marred often by ing all the Governments of Europe. Mingled with his comoverstrained writing, that characterise some modern munications on such subjects are other communications of a very schools. The style is cold but clear, unimpassioned different, but perhaps not of a less interesting kind. All his adventures, all his personal feelings, his long runs after enormous but pleasing, chaste, and classical-exhibiting the stags, his carousals on St, Hubert's-day, the growth of his plan- | power of the English language, when employed without

the meretricious gildings and conceits with which many popular writers have disfigured their works, and con

tribute to form a hurtful and morbid taste.

The historian has, without fear or favour, endeavoured to delineate society as it existed, and its changes

as they occurred. He has skilfully lightened the way by crowds of incidents, thrown in at their proper place, essentially necessary to fill up the range of his design, and by those brief but searching summaries of character that render his work peculiarly valuable.

POEMS BY THOMAS AIRD.*

BY GEORGE GILFILLAN.

"That man

should write poetry," was De Quincey's emphatic comment. There are three lines in it, any one of which is enough to make the poem immortal. One is the picture of the sky of Hell—

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We have rarely felt more at a loss than in criticising || ferent times, to the two last mentioned. this volume of genuine and transcendent poetry; becanse, in the first place, almost all the enthusiastic minds of Scotland are long and intimately acquainted with a great part of its contents; and yet, in the second place, the general mind of the country knows little, and is disposed to believe less, of the merit, power, originality, and genius of the author. In such a case, it becomes somewhat difficult to adjust our phrases of commendation so as not to offend some party, either by what seems depreciation or by exaggeration.

Mr. Aird's most striking qualities are originality, truth to nature, richness of imagery, and power of language. He possesses an eye of his own, a forging mint of his own, a spirit and a style of his own.

You

never trace him in the track of any other author. He
is no echo, but a native voice. He has been most mi-
nute in his observations of nature; and not Thomson
in his "Seasons," nor Cowper in his "Task," has given
more faithful, literal, yet ideal transcripts of scenery.
His "Summer's Day," his "Winter's Day," and his
"Mother's Blessing," remind you of first-rate daguer-
rotypes; every feature of the sly old dame's expres-
sive countenance is caught, and caught with perfect
ease and mastery. Mr. Aird, along with a poet's love,
retains a boy's love for nature. He knows more
birds' nests than any boy in Dumfries, and prizes the

fascination which dwells in a bush of broom or furze,
laden with its golden crop. Notwithstanding the
slight snow which years have shed upon his head, his
heart is all burning with boyhood; his tastes, enthusi-
asms, and joys, are all young. The scenery of Scot-
land has never had a more devoted worshipper, a keener
observer, or a more faithful describer. There are passa-
ges, both in his Poems and in his "Old Bachelor," which
rank with such descriptions as that in "Halloween
of the burnie, in perfect correctness, blended with
ideal beauty, or with the finer pictures in the Waverley
Novels.

Besides this power of minute, knotty, and picturesque description, Mr. Aird has a higher and rarer gift, that of imaginative combination. We find this creative quality best exhibited in his "Devil's Dream on Mount Aksbeck," his "Demoniac," and his "Nebuchadnezzar." Than the first of these, the English language possesses no more unique, sustained, and singular flight of imagination. So such critics as Wilson, Delta, De Quincey, and Samuel Brown, have agreed. We shall never forget the pleasure we had and gave, in introducing this marvellous poem, at dif

Till, like a red bewildered map, the sky was scribbled o'er."
The second is-

"The silent magnanimity of Nature and her God." The third

"And thou shalt summer high in bliss upon the hills of God."

ferior in original genius, when pressed recently with A poet more popular than Mr. Aird, though far inthe "Dream," if it was not a powerful poem, asked, But where is Mount Aksbeck'? And where, Mr.

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A, is Coleridge's Silent Sea'? and where the 'Wood' of his Hermit? and where Bunyan's Mount Marvel'? Perhaps, too, you can tell us where 'Mount Prejudice'

is ?"

The "Demoniac" is another beautiful, in parts powerful, and, throughout, melting ballad. What can of the Demon into his victim?be finer than the following description of the entrance

"The Fiend! the Fiend! hush,' Herman cried, 'he left me here at noon,

Hungry and sick among the brakes, and comes he then so soon?'

p from the shores of the Dead Sea came a dull booming sound;

The leaves shook on the trees; thin winds went wailing all
around.

Then laughter shook the sullen air. To reach his mother's hand
The young man grasped, but back was thrown convulsed upon

the sand.

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Red-veined derived apples I shall cat with savage haste,
And see thy life-blood blushing through, and glory in the taste."

Where can this amiable poet have overheard and retained, as he has here reproduced, the red Alphabet of Hell? Why the "Devil's Dream" has not been generally popular, can be easily explained. It is guarded and fenced from common apprehension and appreciation by the thick burs of beauty and grandeur which surround it. It is inscrutable as an elf-knot*Blackwood, Edinburgh.

mysterious as a meteoric stone. It bears for inscrip-[[the execution of the boldest. Mr. Aird has had in his tion-" to those whom it may concern." But why "Ne-eye the great tragedy of "Lear," where the wide buchadnezzar' has not gained a wider acceptance we stream of the passion sucks into itself a thousand tricannot understand. It has, besides its peculiar ori-butary rills of anguish, and, in one wild swollen wave, ginality, all the externals of a popular poem. It is hurries at last over the precipice. Nevertheless, we clear as crystal, and, as crystal, faultless. It has an do not think that he has been altogether successful. interesting story, a burnished classical polish; and, First, the play is by far too long. It is nearly as long since Byron's "Corsair," or "Lara," the heroic rhyme as are the events described. Secondly, the characters never was more gracefully handled, nor ever moved to are too numerous. It is a Trongate he has set bemore heroic sentiment. One sickens to absolute nau- fore us, with hundreds of common figures moving upon sea at the thought of the popularity of "Silent Love" || it—not a quiet Edinburgh street, with a few noble men --of many of Mrs. Hemans' poems-of L. E. L.'s mu- and women pacing quietly along, and yet with their sical maudlin, while such manly and powerful strains steps tuned to the music of Destiny. Thirdly, the inas Dr. Croly's "Cataline," Browning's "Paracelsus," cidents are too thick and bustling. It is a succession and Aird's "Nebuchadnezzar," are overgrown by the of petty tragedies, rather than a single great one. rank nettles of neglect. Fourthly, there is too much death. It is a bloody bustle. He swims his Trougate in blood. All stab, and everybody dies. Altogether, it is rather a glorious tumult of passion, warfare, force, and fate, than a great, stern, collected tragedy. In "Lear," every vein and artery points to the bruised and broken heart which is the centre of the convulsed framework. In "Wold," unity has evidently been sought for, but not so evidently attained. The author has indulged himself in Having mentioned Cowper, we may take this oppor- superfluities of description, and luxuries of horror, tunity of apprizing the public that an ardent admirer which weaken the torrent of the tale, and blunt the of his genius and Christian character is organizing a axe of the tragedy, which falls, at last, dull and heavy. subscription for the erection of a monument to his me mory in Westminster Abbey. We hail the motion with gladness. So long as he has no memorial there, it is a vital blank in that magnificent pile. No name nearly so great and good is there omitted. We call upon every reader of the "Task "to come forward in this cause. It is the cause of all his admirers; and| who, except Charles Dickens, is not? We happen to know that the movement has attracted the peculiar interest, and is under the special patronage, of William Wordsworth. Mr. Adam White, of the British Museum, Bloomsbury, London, will supply all other information required.*

Besides these, Mr. Aird has written certain poemssome longer and some shorter-of great merit. Among the former are, "The Captive of Fez," "Othuriel," the "Christian Bride;" and, among the latter, who has forgotten his "Belshazzar," or his "Mother's Grave"? No one can read this last without tears. Since Cowper's "Mother's Picture," nothing so pathetic has been written in rhyme.

To return to Mr. Aird-he has, in this present edition, adventured a tragedy entitled the "House of Wold." It is certainly a very bold, peculiar, and powerful effort. The characters and incidents are amazingly numerous and diversified; rich and poetical passages are not so much inserted as rained down from a profound source. Fate sits visibly holding all the reins of the funeral car; and, as if her silent presence were not enough, a singular being, named Afra, appears ever and anon, like a bird of night, singing of approaching doom, and gives a dark choral unity to the play. The canvas chosen is of the broadest, and

# We

saw, when in London the other day, a letter of Mr. Dickens to the gentleman referred to, refusing to contribute to this object-1st, because there were many greater than Cowper to whom no monuments had been erected; and, 2ndly, because he could countenance no such proposal as long as the public were not gratuitously admitted to the Abbey. Now, this is very contemptible, because, in the first place, the public are gratuitously admitted to the Poet's Corner, where, of course, the monument would be placed; and, secondly, who are the poets excluded greater than Cowper, except Coleridge and Byron? And we all know why Byron has no place. No matter. The "Task" will outlive the

"Haunted Man." Dickens is but a "Cricket on the Hearth." Cowper was an Eagle of God, and his memory shall be cherished, and his poems read, after the "Pickwick Papers" are forgotten.

In proof of the poetical power scattered throughout, we quote the following words of Afra, the nightraven of the story-a girl, by the way, who had been injured and orphaned by the house of Wold :

"Afra.-Yonder !

Lo! the old clouds on Wold; all's sunny elsewhere.
Well done, thou bellying blackness! Leap on it,
Vengeance, with thy fierce feet; crush, tread it down,
Till it be dense; tread down the burdened gloom,
Till it be solid black on the doomed towers
And battlements. There let it rest. Now, now!
Is the time come? Merlin, I'm here!
There's a grim waiting in the heavens for something,
As if yon cloud (hush, now!) would burst asunder,
Riven by the flaming wedges of the thunder.

No;

"Tis passing off, heavy and slow, yet off.
The time's not yet-'twill come. Not in vain, Wold,
Have I gone round about thee, winding the curse
Close round about thee.

I walk around thee, Wold,
A seeming, simple thing; but serried spears
Of ranged men, nor walls of brass, with towers
Of blue-ribbed steel, could better hem thee in
Than does the coil of these poor naked feet,
Going around thee thus, and shutting thee
Close up with the doom: not a child's innocent head
Of all Wold's house-not a mouse could get out.
We are reluctant to part, after such a comparatively
curt intercourse with one of the few really true, ori-
ginal, and great poets of our day-one who ranks
with Bayly, Tennyson, Browning, and a few others,
as a man of a cultured, yet independent vein-owing
to nature much, to popularity little, to clique or cote-
rie nothing at all. He has "cast his bread the
waters, and will find it after many days." This book
of his may be long a hermit-stream, only known to
those who have the hardihood to break through the
embowering branches and thick brushwood which sur-
round its waters, but must by-and-by, as its meek
yet strong current flows forward, shine forth into the
light of universal appreciation.

upon

THE PROSPECTS OF MAN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

COME, lover of humanity! and scan
The opening prospects of the race of man.
Come to the Mount of Vision, and explore
Scenes undiscover'd in their path before.
Those dawning glories, that proclaim the day
Of earth's deliverance from tyrannic sway,
Gild with glad hope the long o'erclouded road,
That promis'd bliss to man and praise to God!
Now in the rays of that auspicious morn,
By faith foreseen, of smiling mercy born,
We stand and gaze, exulting at the sight
That spreads before us by advancing light.
Long-chain'd humanity has heard the blast
That trumpets freedom to the world at last.
Erect she stands, with eye intent on heaven,
Whose hand of power her midnight shroud hath riven.
Freedom, long prayed for by the bursting heart
Of nations crush'd by dire oppression's art,
Unrolls before them that majestic plan,
Which proves the Charter of the rights of man.
Child of philanthropy and truth, she comes,

With heaven's own halo round her glorious head,
To rescue mortals from their dungeon homes,

And grant them light, and peace, and joy instead!
Humanity! erect thee, hail the boon!

Thy night of sadness must give place to noon;
Be dried thy tears, be hush'd thy wasting sighs;
Forget thy groanings, stop thy doleful cries;
Wrap up thy sackcloth, as a thing unneeded,

Thy woes are cared for, and thy prayers are heeded!
Gird thee with gladness now, prepare a song,
And call for praise from every human tongue!
Up to the mount of vision, patriot rise;
Look through the azure of benignant skies;
Behold the heralds of the joyous age,
Which Prophets sketch'd on the immortal page!
An arm is felt, unfelt by ages dead;

A voice is heard in many a princely hall,
That fills its tenant with foreboding dread;
A finger writes on many a chamber wall,
The doom that Justice treasur'd for the hour,
That hurls the despot from his throne of power!
Behold how Mind exerts her latent might,
Removes the gloom of intellectual night;
Asserts her claim to reverence from mankind,
And leaves the age of ignorance behind!

Anticipate the glories near at hand,

And read their beams on many a waiting land.
The desert roamer finds a place of rest;
The Arab's children are with knowledge blest.
The shores of Africa, which used to tell
Deeds of atrocity unknown in hell-

Shores, where her sons have oft been sold and bought-
Are studded o'er with schools for living thought.
The dark-brow'd student feels himself the lord
Of treasures richer than a prince could hoard.
Amidst the classic mines of Greece and Rome
The swarthy scholar finds himself at home.
The literature of Europe he assays,
And metes, correctly, blame or hearty praise.
The impious charge of kindred to the brutes,
Flung on his countrymen by daring pride,
His varied learning silently refutes,

And sets the accuser's libel lie aside.
The African has reason-he has more:
Look yet again upon his native shore;
Religion there has poured her healing light,
Where demon tragedies engaged the night.
Where stood the slave mart, welling woe and death,
Now stands a temple to the Lord of life;
There ransom'd minds inspire immortal breath,
Where slave and tyrant met in mortal strife.

"OUR ERA."

Where stood the impious trafficker in souls,
The rude appraiser of an injured race,
The messenger of mercy now unrols

The wond'rous record of redeeming grace.
The desert blooms, the wilderness rejoices;

The long down-trodden shout with free men's voices;
The groves repeat the echo of salvation,
And joy o'erspreads the long-degraded nation.

The hour has come that sets them free,

And gladness reigns from sea to sea!
Away to India vast, whose wond'rous wealth,
Europe has plunder'd long by power or stealth!
Her glorious sun pours down his living beams
O'er all her vallies, forests, rivers, streams;
Like polish'd silver these reflect his light,
Whilst those are rich as Eden to the sight.
The eye delighted roams from field to field,
And wonders at the treasures earth can yield.
But there, too, Mind a nobler harvest grows;
The sun of Reason there with brilliance glows;
The sympathies of manhood there appear,
And Penury from Wealth has ceased to fear;
The haughty Brahmin feels it no disgrace
To own his kindred to the human race.
And genial love its power has shown,
The walls of Caste are overthrown,
And tyrant customs, pal'd, have fled-
The living burn not with the dead!
The Suttee pile has ceased to fright,
With hellish flame, the balmy night;
And Ganges rolls not on his bed,
Amongst the dying and the dead!
But proudly bears on his majestic breast
The proof that Commerce has the Empire blest,
In generous concert with her sister Peace,
Whose heavenly bearing made the war-fiend cease.
The million gods by which old Brahma sway'd
His mystic sceptre long, have all decay'd;
And demonology has lost the art

Of forcing homage from the human heart!
The pagoda, deserted, hears not now
The frantic yell, or still more frantic vow;
The devotee forgets to crawl around
The idol fane, or consecrated mound;
The sacred Vetham-dreams of ancient night-
Retires, abash'd, before evangel light!
Mental Delusion, wail! thy reign is ended!

Deception, shrink! prepare thee for a tomb!
Religion's light with Reason's beams has blended,

And in their Master's name demand your room. Back'd by a power surpassing kingly might, They pierce the shades of thousand years of night! O'er all her coasts, the angel Truth has flown, And from his wings eternal seeds has thrown; And India's millions have obeyed the voice Which bids a nation in its God rejoice! Hail, land of Sinim! mystically grand; Proud, not ambitious; haughty, yet sublime! Whose giant bound'ries some all-grasping hand Traced in the childhood of primeval time. "Celestial Empire !" not improper name,

Great from obscurity, from mystery bright, What wise historian shall record thy fame? What antiquarian shall explore thy night? Thy strange chronology of ancient kings,

Thy fabled gods-tradition's wealthy storeWhose line, dynastic and supernal, flings

A darker shadow on thy mystic lore? What art thou, China? whence thy hoary age? Thy founder who? and where the truthful page, That tells the secret of thy peaceful life, Whilst other kingdoms have been plung'd in strife?

Empires and thrones have flourished, faded, died,
Red War has scorched them with his blasting fire,
Or Time has swept them with his rushing tide
To awful silence; thou art still entire!
Like gaudy insects in the July ray,
Those empires sparkled, then endured decay.
Like huge leviathan amidst the storm,
China reposes, changeless in its form;
A world in stereotype the empire stands,
A vast anomaly amongst the lands!

By fire and sword their stormy tale is traced,
By revolutions, trampling in their rage,
The worthless wrecks of mighty thrones disgraced;
But thou remainest, like an Alpine sage,
Whose snowy locks serenely rest on high,
Unsoil'd by storms that mingle earth and sky!
Entire and changeless ? No! 'Twas but a dream
Of drowsier type than western nations felt;
The angel, change, in tossing them might seem
To have no wing to cross the orient belt;

But 'midst the trance, the book of time has shewn,
That o'er that world his mighty wing was thrown.
Around the strongholds of the state there swept
Prophetic spirits, whilst the empire slept!
Entire and changeless? No! The granite rock
Yields to the rain-drop's oft repeated stroke.
Bright coral islands 'midst the ocean grow ;
The forest falls before the woodman's blow;
The arid desert, clothed in living green,
Shows where the skill and power of man have been,
Huge mountains vanish, vallies heave their bed,
And triumph waits on art's majestic tread;
And truth has conquests worthy of her name;
China has heard of her immortal fame;

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Has heard, and mused, and wonder'd, and believed,
Sprung from the trance of ages and received
New thoughts, suggestive of diviner light
Than e'er tradition pour'd upon her sight.
Their claims ancestral legends have resign'd;
Authentic records brace the listening mind;
Confucius cedes his old prophetic chair;
A greater TEACHER utters wisdom there;
And China's millions, twice made free, combine
To own the source of both the boons, divine!

Pass with the sun, and view the verdant west;
Ride on his beams, and see how man is blest!
Land of the Pilgrims, hail! whose generous hand
Opened to aid the persecuted band.

England in vain imposed the galling yoke ;
Deep thought, arous'd in words of grandeur spoke :-
"Away! we'll cross the broad Atlantic's breast,
And seek in other climes a place of rest!

He, whose great truth thus prompts our swelling souls,
The wind directs, the heaving sea controuls:
The world is His, the mighty ocean's noise
Speaks but the whisper of His mightier voice;
His hand will guide us to the peaceful spot,
Where His high wisdom has decreed our lot!"
Thus nerved, the fathers of an infant world
The flag of freedom to the breeze unfurl'd.
A smile, a tear, a prayer, a long adieu
Comprised their legacy for Time to view :
A smile of greatness at a tyrant's rage,

A tear of pity for a blinded age,

A prayer for mercy on the cause of truth,

A long adieu to all the scenes of youth!

Like heaven's own light, the grace that ransomed man

Pour'd from their lips, and on New England's plains

A glorious era instantly began ;

Long fetter'd mind leap'd from its ancient chains,

New joy inspired the desert solitude,

And men began to breathe an air too bland

For ought but thoughts of one great brotherhood
Peopling the plains of that majestic land!

To give them room primeval forests fell;

Earth, thirty-fold increased her wonted wealth: Fair cities rose, as if by magic spell;

And sun and cloud shed happiness and health! Pass on ye years! o'erleap, o'erlook the crime That dim'd the glory of the brilliant West; Speak not the curse of that repented time,

The great Republic has her guilt confest!

Pass on, pass on! and now with joy survey
The teeming Continent in fair array.
The Federal States are now a glorious land;
The day of Liberty has fully dawn'd.
Its fundamental maxim long had striven-
"All men are equal in the sight of Heaven"-
To rise transparent, an embodied power:
"Tis now successful; see its conquering hour!
From East to West, from South to farthest North,
Its blest behest, resistless, issued forth,
Redeem'd the slave, and broke the tyrant's rod,
For all are equal in the sight of God!"
Well done! thou land of freemen, hail thee now!
A noble crown enwreathes thy kingless brow!
Each of thy sons a prince by right divine,
Thou hast no need with regal courts to shine!
Wash'd from her crime, the Christian Church appears
Pure as she was in Apostolic years;
Whilst the clear sky that domes the gorgeous West,
Hears the loud anthem of a nation blest!

Hail, old Judea! land of song and seer,
What vision this? what glorious sights appear?
Land of a thousand miracles! once more

Blest with the radiance of divinest truth,
Thy woes forgotten, all thy wand'rings o'er,
Great as in days of thy prophetic youth;
Shining a star of glory in the east,

Whose rays attract the wise of distant spheres, Hail, cradle of MESSIAH! be thy rest

Long as the period of thy weeping years!
But whence is this? What miracle arraign'd
The old routine of ordinary deed?

By what almighty mandate is explain'd
Judea, peopled by the "chosen seed?"
Earth, sea, and air have gladly let their power
To realize the grand prophetic hour.

Old Europe's navies, now disused from war,
Have wafted Israel's myriads from afar.
States have made haste the great design to aid,
For which the scattered tribes for ages prayed.
Up from the dust Judea's cities spring,
Rebuilt with splendour, whilst with joy they ring!
The songs of Zion rise from many a band,
And CHRIST is own'd throughout the holy land!

Their long despised MESSIAH reigns,
In every heart His throne maintains.
His scene of woe, in ancient days,
Has now become his scene of praise.
Where fell his blood, by rebels shed,

Where grew the thorns that crown'd his head;
Fresh glories mark his reign of peace,
Fresh praises for him still increase;
The echoing hills "Hosanna!" cry,
And shouts of gladness fill the sky;
Angels descend to man's abode,
His anthems hear and waft to God,
And incense-clouds, from hearts serene,
Rise daily to the GREAT UNSEEN!

The WORLD is still! The NATIONS are at rest!
Freedom and Truth the sons of men have blest;
And ENGLAND sits upon her crystal sea,
Wreathed with a laurel deathless as her fame;
Home of the sage, the eloquent, and free,

And sacred temple to the INCARNATE NAME!

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