He turn'd the Fatalist's rash eye to Him
In whom the issues are of life and death;
He taught to whom the battle is--to whom
The victory belongs. His cherub, that aloft
Kept sleepless watch, was Providence--not Chance.
And yet no honours are decreed for him--
Friend of the Brave, thy memory cannot die!
Th'inquiring voice, that eagerly demands
Where rest thy ashes?--shall preserve thy fame.
Thine immortality thyself hast wrought;--
Familiar as the terms of art, thy verse,
Thine own peculiar words are still the mode
In which the Seaman aptly would express
His honest passions and his manly thoughts;
His feelings kindle at thy burning words,
Which speak his duty in the battle's front;
His parting whisper to the maid he loves
Is breathed in eloquence he learned from thee;
Thou art his Oracle in every mood--
His trump of victory--his lyre of love!
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph
Or naiad, on the mossy, purpled bank
Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet
Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love.
Or like those shapes that on the western clouds
Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl,
And teach the evening winds their melody:
How shall I tell her beauty?--for the eye,
Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam.
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