(5 > 
' £July, 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
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6 YE ARE THE SALT OF THE EARTH.” 
ALT of the earth, ye virtuous few, 
Who feafon human kind; 
Light of the world, whofe cheering ray 
Illumes the realms of mind ; 
Where Mifery fpreads her deepeft fhade, 
‘ Your ftrong compaffion glows; 
From your bleft lips the balm diftils, 
That foftens mortal woes, 
By dying beds, in prifon glooms,' 
Your frequent fteps are found ; 
Angels of love | you hover near, 
To bind the ftranger’s wound. 
You wath with tears the bloody page, 
Which human crimes deform 3 
When vengeance threats, your prayers afcend, 
And break the gathering ftorm. 
As down the fummer ftream of vice 
The thoughtlefs many glide ; 
Upward-you fteer your fteady bark, 
And ftem the rufhing tide. 
Where guilt her foul contagion breathes, 
And golden fpoils allure 5 _ | 
Unfpotted ftill your garments fhine—- 
Your hands are ever pure. 
Whene’er you touch the poet’s lyre, 
_ A loftier {train is heard ; 
Bach ardent thought is your’s alone, 
And every burning word, 
Your's is the large expanfive thought, 
The high heroic deed 5 
Exile and chains to you are dears 
To you ’tis {weet to bleed. 
You lift on high the warning voice, 
When public ills prevail 5 
Your’s is the writing on the wall, 
That turns the tyrant pale. 
The dogs of hell your fteps purfue, 
With fcoff, and fhame, and lofs; 
‘Fhe hemlock bowl ’tis your’s to drain, 
To tafte the bitter crofs. 
E’en yet the fteaming feaffolds fmolce 
By Seine’s polluted ftream ; 
With your rich blood the fields are drench’d 
Where Polifh fabres gleam. 
E’en new, tHrough thofe accurfed bars, 
In vain we fend our fizhs; 
Where, deep in Olmutz’ dungeon gloums, 
The patriot martyr les, 
Yet your’s is ali; thro” hift’ry’s rolls 
The kindling bofom feels ; 
And at your comb, with throbbing heart, 
The fondenthufiat kneels. 
In every faith, thro’ every clime, 
Your pilgrim fteps we trace ; 
And fhrines are dreft, and temples rifey 
Each hallow’d fpot to grace. 
And Pzans loud, in every tongue, 
And choral hymns refound ; 
And length’ning honours hand your name 
To time’s remoteft bound. 
Proceed! your race of glory run, ’ 
Your virtuous toils endure ! 
You come, commiffion’d from on high, - 
And your reward is fure. . 
i A. L, 5 
[= 
ODE TO CONTEMPLATION, 
BY MR. MOTT, . 
Wow ae dim appears—that much-lov'é 
our r 
_ OF fweet tranquillity and rural cafe $i 
When far afield'is heard, 
The ploughman’s fimple fong ; 
And from the bean-field fings the lab’ring bee, 
Warn'd homeward, by the coming fhades of 
night, 
And dews that gently fall 
On ev'ry drooping flow’r. 
With Contemplation let me feek to dwell, 
3n wild romantic vale, or ruin dark, 
Where the fwift-circling bat 
Hits in the twilight way. 
And oft in fheep-cote near, the pleafing found 
Of warning-bellis heard; as Phiiomel, 
In Echo’s mournful haunts, 
Sings her fad tale of woe. 
Or if by mufing mem’ry fondly led: 
To poor Matilda’s turf of fading flowers, 
Meet me in holy guife, 
OQ, Maid! rever'’d by thofe 
Who Tove to thed affetion’s hallow’d tears, 
Unmark’d at night, when through the Reecy 
clouds, 
That ved her azure {phere, 
The wan moon dimly fhines. 
But when drear Winter faddens all the plain, 
And by the cheerful fire, at clofe of day, 
I hear the bleak winds mourn, 
Around my reed-thateh’d hut; 
4 
The Mufe my lonely hours fhall oft beguile : 
And thou, {weet maid, the willing. mind. thalt 
ftore 
With pity, meek content, 
And friendfhip’s facred law, 
As nigh: appears, big with the wintry form,. 
Then fhall the giimm’ring lamp, with cheer 
rays: ii 
Beam 
