Where, in this land, ( Alzira cry'd)
 Shall Indian virtues rest?
Who will be, here , the stranger's guide ,
 And lead her to be blest?

Seek, said the whisp'ring muse , some fair,
 Of England 's beauteous race:
Who does, herself, those virtues share,
 Which most Alzira grace.

One, who has taste , as nobly strong,
 And charms , as softly sweet ;
Will guard her sister soul from wrong ,
 While graces, graces meet.

I took the muse's kind advice ,
 Look'd round the fair and bright ,
And found Alzira , in a trice,

The sacred nine , first, spread their golden wings,
In praise of virtue , heroes , and of kings:
Chast were their lays , and ev'ry verse design'd,
To soften nature , and exalt the mind .
Loosely the moderns live , and loosely write ,
And woo their muse , as Mistress , for delight .
Thick, in their lays , obscenities abound,
As weeds spring plenteous , in the rankest ground:
All, who write verse , to taint a guiltless heart ,
Are vile profaners of the sacred art .
Cloy'd, the sick reader from the work retires,

I.

To sin and earth and sorrow tributary,
We lift our thoughts to thee, O blissful Mary!
Oh! stainless Maid and mightiest Mother! thou
Wert the mysterious gate where, stooping low,
The King of glory entered, first and last
And only One who by that portal passed.
To thee our love we offer; while we pray,
Poor suitors, unto Him who in thee lay,
That we may walk in His new living Way.

II.

Poor suitors are we to thy Son. O Mary!
Like us to death and sorrow tributary,
But not to sin; and who did deign to call

I.

Hrough all the vale,
The primrose pale
Her yellow spots is showing;
And by the stream
Green mosses gleam,
Where Scandale Beck is flowing.

II.

Beneath the trees,
In families,
The snowdrops white are shining;
And through the wood
Full many a bud
Reveals the woodbine twining.

III.

The young fern looks
Like shepherd's crooks,
As though 'twas such a trouble
To force its way
Through stones and clay,
That it had bent it double.

IV.

And though no screen
Of leafy green
Protects my happy dwelling,

“God rest the brave and gallant dead
 Who walked beside us in the fight,
With burning hearts and martial tread:
 To strike for Ireland and the Right.

“We saw them fall, we saw them lie
 Upon the hard, unsheltered street;
Their caoine —the bullets whistling by,
 Their funeral march—our tramping feet.

“No mother's hand upon their brow,
 No wife's fond kiss upon their cheek,
But in our hearts a silent vow,
 The prayer our lips could scarcely speak.

“'Tis good to think, in gloomy days,
 When thoughts of dark despair will rise,

Yes—now 'tis time to die—despair comes on;
Who keeps the body , when the soul is gone?
She sets —fair light , that shew'd me all my joy,
And, like the sun's , her absence must destroy .
She, who once wept my fancy'd loss of breath,
Now , crimeless murd'rer! gives me real death.

 Yet, have a care, touch'd heart , nor sigh one thought ,
That stains such goodness with a purpos'd fault .
Soft, as her tears , her gentle meanings move;
Her soul sheds sweetness , tho' her look is love .
Her voice is musick , tun'd to heav'n's low note;

Low spirits are a rightful penance given
To over-talking and unthoughtful mirth.
There is nor high nor low in holiest heaven,
Nor yet in hearts where heaven hath hallowed earth.
Still there are some whose growth is won in strife,
And who can bear hot suns through all their life:
But rather for myself would I forego
High tides of feeling and brief moods of power,
Than share those languors with the showy flower,
Which the shade-loving herb doth never know.
O Brathay! wisely in thy winter grounds,
Wisely and sweetly are thy currents chiming,

No! thou best soul, that e'er this body knew,
Unhappy I may be, but not untrue!
Blest, or unblest, my love can ne'er decay ,
Nor could I, where I could not love, betray .
Cold, and unjust, the shocking caution kills,
And, in one meaning, spots me o'er with ills .
Silent, as sacred lamps , in bury'd urns ,
The conscious flame of lovers inward burns:
Life should be torn, and racks be stretch'd in vain,
And vary'd tortures tire their fruitless pain ,
E're but a thought of mine shou'd do thee wrong ,
Or spread thy beauties on the public tongue .

Somewhat of wildness and of weak untruth
And fond abstraction, surely may be borne,
Not without ready pardon, in a youth
Who hath but for awhile his fetters worn.
For the hot heart of youth hath laws: mayhap
The seeds of married faith are often cast
Upon this surge of hopes, and in the lap
Of vernal love may take true root at last.
Yet courtship is the unshapely element,
Whence the deep power of chaste affection still
Must calmly be evoked, till it fulfil
The end and nature of a sacrament,
And sanctify both spirits from above

Two thousand years, e'er Stepney had a name,
In Carthage walls, I shar'd the punic fame;
There, to the strongest, added strength I lent,
And proudly propp'd the world's best ornament.
Now, to cold Britain , a torn transport, thrown,
I piece a church-yard pile , unmark'd, unknown:
Stain'd, and half sunk in dirt, my sculpture lies,
And moulders, like the graves , which round me rise.
Oh! think, blind mortals! what frail dust, you claim,
And laugh at wealth, wit, beauty, pow'r, and fame!
Short praise, can fleeting hopes, like yours, supply,