1822.] 
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ORIGINAL POETRY. 
GRECIAN SONG OF LIBERTY, 
BY HUGH CLARKE. 
"PROM sl.ivsry’s grasp and the gloom of the 
A prison, 
Oh let us arise, and as soldiers unite, 
Behold, onrstern tyrants have wildly arisen, 
To blacken our charter of freedom and right. 
By all that is dear to your pride and your glory, 
Your firmness of friendship and greatness of 
name; 
By the blush of your vailies, all trampled and 
gory, 
We rouse you to action, and call you to fame. 
Come, friends, who remember Thermopylae’s he¬ 
roes, 
Have heated their swords with the blood of their 
foes— 
Behold.howthe Sultan's rudeswordsmen are near us, 
With chains for your children, and hate for your 
woes. 
Come, rush to the field, and as Grecians inherit 
The trust of your country, bequeath’d by your 
sires, 
Let noble revenge give your feelings a spirit, 
Till liberty triumphs as thraldom expires. 
By the deeds of the valiant, who bravely defended, 
Their birthright of valour, their country s repose: 
By the darkness of power o’er your welfare sus¬ 
pended, 
Come, sheath ev’ry sword in the hearts of your 
foes : 
And weaken the poison from tyranny streaming, 
Ere, tainting the body, itriuhtotbe mind, 
Of high glowing action, in purity beaming, 
To brighten thefeelings and views of mankind. 
As high o’er its ashes the phoenix ascendeth. 
Expanding its plumes of the loveliest dies, 
So when our dark night of adversity endeth, 
Our morning of freedom may brightly arise. 
Shall Greeks, at the frowning of slavery, sever, 
And see it debasing their hearts and their souls, 
When friendship and freedom are shining for ever, 
To cheer us alike at the line or the poles. 
THE ADIEU. 
O, I must seek my own true love 
Ere I cross yon billowy sea : 
0,1 must steal a kiss to prove, 
How dear to my heart is she. 
O’er the billowy foaming wave I go, 
To a foreign clime and strand ; 
But the loveliest flow’r of brightest hue, 
1 leave in my own dear land. 
This love of mine is the wildest flower, 
In Nature’s own pathway seen ; 
Her tear is the glitthing April show’r, 
Her smile Hope’s brightest beam. 
From Afric’s pearly wave I’ll send, 
To my love its rarest gem, 
In her silent locks to playful blend, 
And form her diadem. 
Araby’s breeze with its sweetest swell. 
Whilst the sails of my bark are spread, 
Shall pass to the bower where my love does 
dwell, 
From the realm where they are bred. 
But the gem iis match will quickly meet? 
In the pearl from my true love’s eye. 
And the breeze tho’ soft, and the breeze 
tho’ sweet, 
Will be lost when Helen’s nmh. 
d. o 
Yet suppose in the deep, my Helen dear, 
Your love should find his grave: 
Will the gushing drops from those eyes so 
clear, 
Fall silent in the wave. 
A spirit shall then o’er the ocean skim, 
And alight on thy bosom to rest, 
In thy ear a voice, and the voice of him. 
Shall lull thee then to rest. 
But fear not, love, I’ll come to thee. 
In mortal mould and form; 
Thou’st pledged thine own true love to me, 
And I’ll brave the raging storm. 
Birmingham. G. F. H 
26th Sept. 1821. 
SOLILOQUY OF A WINTER BATHER, 
PARODIED from POPE 
Timid mass of flesh and blood, 
Plunge, ah ! plunge, into the flood. 
Swimming, wiping, glowing, stripping, 
O the bliss, the pain of dipping! 
Cease, my coward soul, to stop ine, 
Let me under water pop me. 
Chilly wiud-gusts seem to say, 
Dress you, ’tis the shortest way. 
What is this absorbs me quite, 
Stuns my hearing, shuts my sight, 
Stomach-qualming, breath-depriving ? 
I have triumph’d; it was diving : 
’Tis done ; the water disappears, 
’Tis running out of both my ears. 
And that’s a lucky thing. 
Reach, reach the cloth : I tingle, glow ! 
O water, where’s thy victory now ? 
O oold, where is thy sting? 
AUTUMN. 
Now Winter from his throne is hurling 
The deep-voiced matron of the year, 
And fitful gusts are wildly whirling 
Her yellow hair on high ; tho’ here 
In many a fold of beauty streaming. 
It lingers still; whilst from her eye 
The watery light of love is beaming, 
As bright, but, oh! as fleetingly— 
Filling the bosom with a sadness, 
Tho’ born of grief—allied to gladness I 
Yet Autumn’s gloom to me is dearer 
Than Spring, orSummer’s sunniest smile. 
And speaks a language far sincei er 
Than their all cloudless skies;—the wile 
Of 
