Sun of the soul! whose intellectual ray

Cheers the dark thought, as Phoebus cheers the day.

Forsake me not, sweet Poesy! since I

From all my cares to thee for refuge fly :
Still, still to thee my heart of hearts I'll give,
Nor cease to love thee though I cease to live;
Since not to earth alone thy strains belong,
But Heaven itself is one celestial song!

CANTO I.

THE BOWER.

Island of bliss! amid the subject seas
That thunder round thy rocky coast set up
At once the wonder, terror, and delight
Of distant nations!

THOMSON.

Nor of the skies where scorching suns are glowing
Not of the Beauties darkening in their beams;

But of the cloudier atmosphere, bestowing
Tints pure and lovely as a poet's dreams:

Not of the climes where flowers for ever springing
Fatigue with bright monotony of bliss ;
But where cool dews and fickle gales are flinging
The varied verdure that enchants in this :

B

1

Not of past deeds, and days of old renown,

Redeemed by History's touch from time's neglect, But of the mightier acts that grace our own, Which ev'n the prime of youth can recollect:

"Tis mine to sing! no muse's aid I ask

For me they scorn to quit the Aonian hill; Nor will I woo them to the aspiring task That owns a loftier inspiration still.

Nature, 'tis thine! no fancied scenes I draw
No fabled woes resound along my lyre ;-
Do thou then teach the deepening tints to awe,
Do thou the mournful minstrelsy inspire!

Though sterner critics turn, perchance, away,
My song may win the listening ear of youth-
The smile of beauty may reward the lay,
And pity's tear embalm a tale of truth!

LAND of my birth! the bravest, noblest, best
Rest, crowned with glory, from thy labors rest.
Thou canst not win one single laurel more
To add to Waterloo's ensanguined store.
Years have rolled on, yet memory still is rife
With all the wonders of that matchless strife;

When conquest crowned thee for her own

fame

Became synonimous with Wellesley's name.

-

Long years have rolled away and other themes
Have waked the warrior's fire, the poet's dreams,
Yet ne'er should civil strife or party rage
Blot former benefits from memory's page.

Illustrious conqueror! exalted chief!

Pure was the praise unmixed with shame or grief.
Untarnished by ambition, and unstained

By cruelty, the wreaths thy valour gained.

That arm which ransomed nations- raised thine own
To heights of fame undreamed of, and unknown --
Broke slavery's galling yoke through many a land -
And dashed the sceptre from the tyrant's hand
At freedom's glorious call, and not for fame;
Waved round our Eden's walls its sword of flame;
Then well may Freedom's sea-girt island raise
To thee the ceaseless tribute of her praise.
No lapse of time, how long soe'er it be

Should break her bonds of gratitude to thee! 2
But cease, too daring bard, and turn thy flight
From themes too lofty, and from scenes too bright ;
The bird of Jove may wing his towering way

And gaze undazzled on the orb of day;