In the deed should we fall, (since who’ll e’er
breathe a slave?)
Our free souls shall repose in the realms of the brave;
In the song we shall live, and fresh heroes inspire,
While the son shall exult in the fate of his sire.
Then know, ye white race! ye too long shake the rod;
By this arm ye shall soon be dismiss’d to your God!
Then demand, if he bade ye torment, why he gave
All the soul of a man to the breast of a slave?
Then prepare; know our hatchets atone for our wrong,
And our hearts, like our hatchets, are stubborn and strong:
Sleep your last! ye no more shall the morning survey,
Nor shall sorrow arise with the break of the day.
Yes, remember the lashes that pierc’d thro’
See the wounds of our fathers; they open afresh!
In the winds, hark! blue Avrin attends to our call;
I, your chief, will be first in your glories, or fall!
WRITTEN ON DELIA, LISTENING TO HER CANARY-BIRD.
When thoughtless Delia unconcern’d surveys
Her plumy captive, as he leans to sing,
Lo! while she smiles, the fascination stays
The little heaven of its airy wing.
Ah! so she tastes the sorrows I impart,
Smiles at the sound, but never feels my pain;
And many a glance deludes my captive heart
To sigh in numbers, tho’ I sigh in vain!
Upon the breezy cliff’s impending brow,
With trembling step, the Hectic paus’d awhile;
As round his wasted form the sea-breeze blew,
His flush’d cheek brighten’d with a transient smile:
Refresh’d and cherish’d by its balmy breath,
He dreamt of future bliss, of years to come;
Whilst, with a look of woe, the spectre, Death,
Oft shook his head, and pointed to his tomb.
Such sounds as these escap’d his lab’ring
“Sweet Health! thou wilt revisit this sad frame;
Slumber shall bid these aching eyelids rest,
And I shall live for love, perchance for fame.”
Ah! poor enthusiast!—in the day’s decline
A mournful knell was heard, and it was thine!
ACCOMPANIED WITH A DRIED HELIOTROPE,
Which she had presented to the Author a Year before.
Time, since thou gav’st this flow’r to
Has often turn’d his glass of sand;
Perchance ’tis now unknown to thee
That once its breath perfum’d thy hand.
Oh, lovely maid! that thou may’st see
How much thy gifts my care engage,
I’ve sent the cherish’d flow’r to thee
Without a blemish, but from age.
Kiss but its leaves;—one kiss from thee,
And all its sweetness ’twill regain;
And, if I live in memory
Thus honour’d, send it back again!