432 
EPIC FRAGMENTS. 
THE PATRIOTS TOMB. 
Honour to him, who in his country’s cause 
The sword unsheaths, to vindicate the claims 
Of free-born man against Oppression’s might. 
What tho’ in battle field, among the brave, 
In manhood’s prime he fell ! his better self, 
There, where the spirits of the just ascend, 
Secure in deathless recompence, survives ; 
And from those regions of the bless’d he 
hears, 
Whene’er towards the rescued world he 
bends, 
The choral song of generations rise, 
Chaunting his bright example, while they 
guard 
The sacred charter by his blood redeem’d. 
He quaffs the incense, feels his heav’n more 
bless’d, 
And owns the rich reward. The dross of 
life— 
What is it to the never-perishing ore 
Of glory virtue-own’d, and patriot fame! 
DEVOTION. 
' «€ Go! praise me with thy deeds, and not 
thy words !”” 
Such is the voice of Heav’n—of Heav’n 
best serv’d, 
When to its proper purposes the soul 
Bends its‘ best energies; not when the 
chaunt 
Of matin song and evening vesper steals 
In drowsy monotone from cloister’d cells 
Of sainted indolence, where thriftless drones 
Feed on the comb they wrought not. Go 
then forth ; 
(To high pretensions born, to higher called!) 
Go to thy proper sphere—the strife of souls, 
The camp, the council—to the perilous 
breach 
Where foreign inundation threats to o’er- 
whelm 
Thy fainting country —or, o’erwhelming 
more, 
Where tyrannous Corruption, like a flood, 
Breaks through the feeble bounds of Law 
and Right, 
And desolates the realm. Conspicuous there 
Exert thy energies—to rouse—to urge 
The ‘dormant soul of patriot worth, and 
nerve 
The else palsied arm. Be thou (or be ex- 
tinct) 
The quickening sun—the cheering central 
fire 
Of life and glory—round whose radiant orb 
A nation’s hopes and destinies revolve. 
This is the service Heaven of THEE re- 
quires :— 
For this hath form’d thee—and to this or- 
‘dains ! 
ELOQUENCE OF LOVE. 
Love has a silent language of his own, 
To every tribe in every region known ; 
And his best eloquence is summ’d in this— 
A look and sigh that prologue to a kiss. 
Original Poetry. 
(Dec. 1, 
DANISH SONGS AND 
BALLADS. 
No. I. 
BEAR SONG. 
Tue squirrel that’s sporting 
Amid the dead leaves, 
Full oft with its rustle 
‘The hunter deceives ; 
Who, starting, imagines 
That booty is nigh, 
And, swelling with pleasure, 
His bosom beats high. 
‘¢ Now, courage!” he mutters; 
And, crouching below 
A thunder-split linden, 
He waits for his foe: 
“ Ha! joy to the hunter! 
A monstrous bear 
Even now is approaching, 
And bids me prepare. 
«“ Hark! hark! for the monarch 
Of forests ere long 
Will breathe out his bellow, 
Deep-throated and strong.” 
Thus saying, he gazes 
Intently around ; 
But (death to his wishes !) 
Can hear not a sound ; 
Except when at moments 
The wind rising shrill, 
Wafts boughs from the bushes 
Across the Jone hill ; 
Or save when the squirrel, 
>Mid thicket and leaves, 
Again with its rustle 
The hunter deceives. 
HORACE. 
Onpr rx. Boox i. 
By tHe Hon. H—. W—. 
Soracre now is white with snow, 
And frozen stands the stream below ; 
See! labouring woods along the plain, 
Their weighty burthen scarce sustain. 
Let’s thaw the frost, and on the heath, 
Let crackling wood drive off the cold ; 
And come, Croupier, increase our mirth 
With your best wine, the four years old. 
Then to the Gods consign the rest, 
Who calm the tempest-troubled seas. 
The aged ash no more opprest, 
Rests calmly from the wintry breeze, 
Seek not to-morrow’s fate to scan, 
But make the most of present hours: 
Enjoy love’s pleasures whilst you can, 
Ere yet old age your bloom deflowers. 
In manly games now take delight ; 
And now soft whispering in the night, 
The titter of the nymph conceal’d, 
Who guards 'the toy she longs to yield. 
PATENTS 
