The plunderer came!-alas! no glory smiles For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian isles; For ever fall'n! no son of Nature now, With Freedom charter'd on his manly brow! Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore! The shrill horn blew; at that alarum knell His guardian angel took a last farewell! That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd The fiery grandeur of a generous mind! Poor fetter'd man! I hear thee whispering low Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Woe! Friendless thy heart; and canst thou harbour there A wish but death-a passion but despair?

The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires! So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh! So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty!

But not to Libya's barren climes alone,

To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone,

Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye,
Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh!-
Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run!
Prolific fields! dominions of the sun!

How long your tribes have trembled and obey'd!
How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd,
Whose marshall'd hosts, the lions of the plain,
From Scythia's northern mountains to the main,
Raged o'er your plunder'd shrines and altars bare,
With blazing torch and gory cimitar,-

Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale,
And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale!
Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame,
When Brama's children perished for his name;
The martyr smiled beneath avenging power,
And brayed the tyrant in his torturing hour!

When Europe sought your subject realms to gain,
And stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main,
Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape,
And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape;
Children of Brama! then was Mercy nigh
To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye?
Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save,
When freeborn Britons cross'd the Indian wave?
Ah, no!-to more than Rome's ambition true,
The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you!
She the bold route of Europe's guilt began,
And, in the march of nations, led the van!
Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone,
And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own,
Degenerate trade! thy minions could despise
The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries;
Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store,
While famish'd nations died along the shore:
Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear
The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair;
Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name,
And barter, with their gold, eternal shame!

But hark! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels, From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals! Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell, Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell,

And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind,
Roll on the azure paths of every wind.

"Foes of mankind! (her guardian spirits say,) Revolving ages bring the bitter day,

2

When heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you,
And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew;
Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurl'd
His awful presence o'er the alarmed world;.
Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame,
Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came;
Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain—
But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again!
He comes! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky
With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high,
Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form,
Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm!
Wide waves his flickering sword; his bright arms glow
Like summer suns, and light the world below!
Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed,
Are shook; and Nature rocks beneath his tread!
"To pour redress on India's injured realm,
The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm;
To chase destruction from her plunder'd shore
With arts and arms that triumph'd once before,
The tenth Avatar comes! at Heaven's command
Shall Seriswattee wave her hallow'd wand!
And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime,
Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime!
Come, Heavenly Powers! primeval peace restore!
Love!-Mercy!-Wisdom!-rule for evermore!"

END OF THE FIRST PART

ANALYSIS.-PART II.

APOSTROPHE to the power of Love-its intimate connexion with generous and social Sensibility-allusion to that beautiful passage in the beginning of the book of Genesis, which represents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete, till love was superadded to its other blessings-the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Hope is animated by refined attachment-this disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of residence, all that is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, compared to the skill of the great artist who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of Venus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find-a summer and winter evening described, as they may be supposed to arise in the mind of one who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and retire

ment.

Hope and Imagination inseparable agents-even in those contemplative moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and more distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy.

The last and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding topic of the poem-the predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution—the baneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts-allusion to the fate of a suicide-episode of Conrad and Ellenore-conclusion.

IN joyous youth, what soul hath never known
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?
Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye
Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh?
Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name?

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow,
Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow;
There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd,
In self-adoring pride securely mail'd:-
But, triumph not, ye peace-enamour'd few!
Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!
For
you
no fancy consecrates the scene
Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between ;
'Tis your's, unmoved, to sever and to meet;
No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh! what were man?-a world without a sun.