English

From Lincoln to London rode forth our young squire,
To bring down a wife whom the swains might admire;
But, in spite of whatever the mortal could say,
The goddess objected the length of the way.

To give up the op'ra, the park, and the ball,
For to view the stag's horns in an old country hall;
To have neither China nor India to see,
Nor a laceman to plague in a morning — not she!

To forsake the dear playhouse, Quin, Garrick, and Clive.
Who by dint of mere humour had kept her alive;

A BALLAD, ALLUDING TO A STORY RECORDED OF HER WHEN SHE WAS PRISONER AT WOODSTOCK, 1554

Will you hear how once repining
Great Eliza captive lay?
Each ambitious thought resigning,
Foe to riches, pomp, and sway.

While the nymphs and swains delighted
Tript around in all their pride,
Envying joys by others slighted,
Thus the royal maiden cried:

" Bred on plains, or born in valleys,

Of steel and iron, cold and hard and dumb,
Now forge thyself a heart, O man! and come
And walk the town of slaughter. Thou shalt see
With waking eyes, and touch with conscious hands,
On fences, posts, and doors,
On paying in the street, on wooden floors,
The black, dried blood, commingled here and there
With brains and splintered bone.
And thou shalt wander in and out of ruins
Of broken walls, doors wrenched from off their hinges,
Stoves overturned, dilapidated hearths,
And singed beams laid bare, and half-burnt bricks,

A maiden wandering from the East,
A saint immaculately white,
I saw in holy dream last night,
Who rode upon a milk-white beast;
Across the woods her shadow fell,
And wrought a strange and silent spell,
A miracle.

With firm-set eyes, and changeless face,
She passed the cities one by one;
Her hair was coloured like the sun,
And shed a glory round the place;
Where'er she came, she was so fair,
That men fell down and worshipped there
In silent prayer.

And ever in her sacred hands

Hear ye not the voice of anguish,
In our own — our native land?
Brethren, doom'd in chains to languish,
Lift to heaven the fetter'd hand;
And despairing,
Death, to end their grief, demand.

Let us raise our supplication,
For the scourg'd, the suff'ring slave —
All whose life is desolation,
All whose hope is in the grave;
God of Mercy!
From thy throne, Oh! hear and save.

Those in bonds we would remember;
Lord! our hands with theirs are bound!
With each helpless, suff'ring member,

Hear us, Father! while we cry,
Pleading for an injur'd race;
Make the bolts asunder fly,
By thine own resistless grace.

Let the captives all go free,
Let th' oppressor cease to reign,
And the arm of tyranny,
Never more be rais'd again.

Crush the system in the dust,
Ere another year be past;
Ev'ry chain and fetter burst,
Which have been around them cast.

Then will shrieks be turn'd to praise,
As the gory whip departs,
And the ransom'd daily raise
Songs of joy from grateful hearts.

O Lord! whose forming hand one blood
To all the tribes and nations gave,
And giv'st to all their daily food,
Look down in pity on the slave!

Fetters and chains and stripes remove,
Deliv'rance to the captives give;
And pour the tide of light and love
Upon their souls, and bid them live.

Oh! kindle in our hearts a flame
Of zeal, thy holy will to do;
And bid each one, who loves thy name,
Love all his bleeding brethren too.

Through all thy temples, let the stain
Of prejudice each bosom flee;

Pray on — pray on; by pray'r are done
The greatest wonders, vict'ries won;
Pray on — pray on; and never cease,
Pray'r is our armor — brings us peace.

Pray on — pray on; and weary not,
Let not our refuge be forggot;
God is our refuge, sure, and blest,
We lean upon our Father's breast.

An Luinneag: A bhanarach dhonn a' chruidh,
Chaoin a' chruidh, dhonn a' chruidh,
Cailin deas donn a' chruidh,
Cuachag an fhasaich.

A bhanarach mhiogach,
'S e do ghaol thug fo chis mi,
'S math thig lamhainnean sioda
Air do mhin-bhasan bana.

'S mor bu bhinne bhith 'd eisdeachd
'N am bhith bleoghan na spreidhe
Na 'n smeorach sa' Cheitein
'M barr geig ann am fas-choill.

Nuair a sheinneadh tu coilleag
A' leigeil mairt ann an coillidh,
Thigeadh eunlaith gach doire

Surely the people is grass, now do they fade like a blossom;
Surely the people is slain — it is slain with a slaughter unending.

Lo! when the voice of their God thunders about them forever,
This is a people that moves not, a people that stirs not nor trembles;

Nor do they rise like a lion, nor like a young lion waken,
Nor at the voice do they tremble, never a man of them stirreth.

Nay, and the hearts of the people thrill not with gladness together,
When from the eastward and westward, calling from ocean to ocean,