[ 238 J 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
[April 1, 
—= > 
EPIC FRAGMENTS.—No. III. 
{it ought, perhaps, to have been acknowledged, when 
the first number of this series of Fragments was 
introduced into our Miscellany, that they consist 
of detached passages merely, which, in the revision 
of an unpublished national poem, have been reject- 
ed by their author either asexuberances, or as not 
critically consonant with the general character of 
the composition, or the situations in which they 
stood. The ‘‘ trim gardener’s” definition of a 
weed—‘* any plant or shrub growing out of its 
place,” is certainly not less applicable to the floreage 
of literature than of horticulture: but whether 
these loppings and luxuriances, which the author 
considered as weeds in their original position, may 
be regarded as having been such from position 
only, and may pass for flowers in their own sepa- 
rate parterre, must be left to the judgment of the 
reader. It may be well, however, to add, that, in- 
asmuch as they have reference to a general subject, 
the assignable chronology is the commencement of 
the seventh century. ] 
THE SHORES OF ALBION. 
Farr swells to view thy southern line of coast, 
Oak-nurturing Wessex, Albion’s regal hope! 
With cliff diversified, and Vecta’s isle: — 
Gay-blooming Vecta! on smooth Solent’s 
wave 
Geutly reclining, like some smiling babe 
Cradled beneath its nursing-mothier’s eye ! 
And, nigh at hand, that harbour’s famous 
mouth 
(Predoom’d how famous! in some distant day, 
When Albion shall his naval cross unfurl, 
Andawe the subject ocean!) where brave Port, 
In arms first landing, with the filial pair, 
Benda and Megla, to the well-fought field 
Led his bold bands, and left his deathless 
name 
Recorded in his foot-prints on the shore. 
Thence, as in narrowing channel pent, fulloft, 
Chiding its bounds, the raging ocean roars ; 
While, ail majestic, beetling o’er their base, 
The chalky rocks of Cantia seem to threat 
The half-meeting coasts of Gaul.—Proud 
Cantian clit! 
Hereafter by the eternal halo crown’d 
Of sacred poesy !—than that Grecian hill 
More glorious, while the Swan of Avon sings 
High o’er thy highth, or, ploughing the 
stil’d wave 
That laves thy feet, the upgazing song renews, 
Whose lingering echoes thro’ all time shall 
ring. 
—————t a 
MALCONTENTS. 
‘Turk not that patriot-virtue swell’d alone 
The ranks of Malcontent; for some there 
were,— 
Nor these unknown, nor of the meaner sort, 
Urg’d on by darker impulse—daring spirits, 
Whose bold bad services, perchance, had met 
Short of their hop’d reward ; or who, inflam’d 
By private rancour, or the hope of spoil, 
*Clamour’d of wrongs; nor thirsted less for 
change, ; 
cd 
Than those of better mould, the patriot few, 
From sacred love of Freedom: --for that name 
Blends not unfrequent, in one commoncause, 
The best and worst:* and Virtue (pain to 
think !) 
Mast ofttime, in her politic workings, use 
Such doubtful ministry ;—the pure of heart, 
Perchance, too meek, too timid, and too few, 
To cope with tyranny’s collective might. ~ 
EPITAPH 
ON A FAITHFUL DOG. 
A vicrim only to the lapse of age, ‘ 
Here lies a faithful friend ; the storied page 
Of History, and the Muse’s dirge proclaim 
What sorrow fain would have concealed—his 
name, 
Him whom his master’s fostering hand had 
rear’d, 
Whom heedless Fortune’s slaughtering tread 
had spared, 
And bloody-handed Fury left untorn 
The slow unerring tooth of Time hath worn. 
Then hither, Sisters of the sacred spring, 
The solace of your sweetest music bring, 
And in sad numbers chaunt his homely praise, 
While tears responsive flow to your soft lays ; 
Praise ye his honest face, his curly hair, 
His nonchalance and independent air ; 
His tongue, that never knew the liar’s brand ; 
His faithful watch, unbrib’d by treacherous 
hand ; 
His deep-ton’d bark, surpassing all belief, 
The well-known terror of each nightly thief ; 
Lay up his ashes in yon virgin-bower, 
Where the white snow-drop and sweet violet 
flower ; 
And on the urn write, ‘* Strangers, pause 
and see 
The grave of one without hypocrisy, 
He lick’d the hand alone that would caress: 
But struck, he snapped,with honest peevish- 
ness ; 
He guarded well the house, nor left his 
home 
At night, in search of lady-dogs, to roam, 
But was a holy Friar in his. cast, 
And lived in single bliss e’en to the last. _ 
To his pure shade be better homage given 
‘Than man deserves, who shuts him out of 
Heaven ; 
Nor deem the vow unhallowed—that the 
boon 
Of peace eternal be the lot of Scroon.” 
SONG. 
ui 
A wreatu I wove of many a flower— 
Carnation, rose and lily white, 
That bloom’d at norning’s waking hour, 
Embalm’d with dewy tears of night. 
* It may perhaps be instructiveto the hunters of 
supposed plagiarism to be informed, that this pas- 
sage was written several years before the appearance 
of a very similar one quoted in our Jast Supplement, 
p- 536, from Lord J. Russells Memoirs of the Affairs 
of Europe. ~ > eee nae 
