not—hark! with crashing shock
She’s shivered ’gainst the solid rock,
Or by the fierce, incessant waves
Is beaten to a thousand staves;
Or bilging at her crazy side,
Admits the thundering hostile tide,
And down she sinks!—triumphant rave
The winds, and close her wat’ry grave!

   The merchant’s care and toil are vain,
His hopes He buried in the main—
In vain the mother’s tearful eye
Looks for its sole remaining joy—
In vain fair Susan walks the shore,
And sighs for him she’ll see no more—
For deep they lie in ocean’s womb,
And fester in a wat’ry tomb.

   Now, from the frothy, thundering main,
My meditations seek the plain,

Where, with a swift fantastic flight,
They scour the regions of the night,
Free as the winds that wildly blow
O’er hill and dale the blinding snow,
Or, through the woods, their frolics play,
And whirling, sweep the dusty way,
When summer shines with burning glare,
And sportive breezes skim the air,
And Ocean’s glassy breast is fanned
To softest curl by Zephyr bland.

   But Summer’s gone, and Winter’s here—
With iron sceptre rules the year—
Beneath this dark inclement sky
How many wanderers faint and die!
One, flouncing o’er the treacherous snow,
Sinks in the pit that yawns below!
Another numbed, with panting lift
Inhales the suffocating drift!
And creeping cold, with stiffening force,
Extends a third, a pallid corse!

   Thus death, in varied dreadful form,
Triumphant rides along the storm:
With shocking scenes assails the sight,
And makes more sad the dismal night!
How blest the man, whose lot is free
From such distress and misery;
Who, sitting by his blazing fire,
Is closely wrapt in warm attire;
Whose sparkling glasses blush with wine
Of mirthful might and flavour fine;
Whose house, compact and strong, defies
The rigour of the angry skies!
The ruffling winds may blow their last,
And snows come driving on the blast;

And frosts their icy morsels fling,
But all within is mild as spring!

How blest is he!—blest did I say?
E’en sorrow here oft finds its way.
The senses numbed by frequent use,
Of criminal, absurd abuse
Of heaven’s blessings, listless grow,
And life is but a dream of woe.

Oft fostered on the lap of ease,
Grow racking pain and foul disease,
And nervous whims, a ghastly train,
Inflicting more than corp’ral pain:
Oft gold and shining pedigree
Prove only splendid misery.
The king who sits upon his throne,
And calls the kneeling world his own,
Has oft of cares a greater load
Than he who feels his iron rod.

No state is free from care and pain
Where fiery passions get the rein,
Or soft indulgence, joined with ease,
Begets a thousand ills to tease:
Where fair Religion, heavenly maid,
Has slighted still her offered aid.
Her matchless power the will subdues,
And gives the judgment clearer views:
Denies no source of real pleasure,
And yields us blessings out of measure;
Our prospect brightens, proves our stay,
December turns to smiling May;
Conveys us to that peaceful shore,
By raging billows lashed no more,
Where endless happiness remains,
And one eternal summer reigns.

VERSES SENT TO A LADY ON HER
BIRTHDAY.

The joyous day illumes the sky
That bids each care and sorrow fly
      To shades of endless night:
E’en frozen age, thawed in the fires
Of social mirth, feels young desires,
      And tastes of fresh delight.

In thoughtful mood your parents dear,
Whilst joy smiles through the starting tear,
      Give approbation due.
As each drinks deep in mirthful wine
Your rosy health, and looks benign
      Are sent to heaven for you.

But let me whisper, lovely fair,
This joy may soon give place to care,
      And sorrow cloud this day;
Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue,
And velvet lips of scarlet hue,
      Discoloured, may decay.

As bloody drops on virgin snows,
So vies the lily with the rose
      Full on your dimpled cheek;
But ah! the worm in lazy coil
May soon prey on this putrid spoil,
      Or leap in loathsome freak.

Fond wooers come with flattering tale,
And load with sighs the passing gale,
      And love-distracted rave:

But hark, fair maid! whate’er they say,
You’re but a breathing mass of clay,
      Fast ripening for the grave.

Behold how thievish Time has been!
Full eighteen summers you have seen,
      And yet they seem a day?
Whole years, collected in Time’s glass,
In silent lapse how soon they pass,
      And steal your life away!

The flying hour none can arrest,
Nor yet recall one moment past,
      And what more dread must seem
Is, that to-morrow’s not your own—
Then haste! and ere your life has flown
      The subtle hours redeem.

Attend with care to what I sing:
Know time is ever on the wing;
      None can its flight detain;
Then, like a pilgrim passing by,
Take home this hint, as time does fly,
      “All earthly things are vain.”

Let nothing here elate your breast,
Nor, for one moment, break your rest,
      In heavenly wisdom grow:
Still keep your anchor fixed above,
Where Jesus reigns in boundless love,
      And streams of pleasure flow.

So shall your life glide smoothly by
Without a tear, without a sigh,
      And purest joys will crown

Each birthday, as the year revolves,
Till this clay tenement dissolves,
      And leaves the soul unbound.

Then shall you land on Canaan’s shore,
Where time and chance shall be no more,
      And joy eternal reigns;
There, mixing with the seraphs bright,
And dressed in robes of heavenly light,
      You’ll raise angelic strains.

THE IRISH CABIN.

Should poverty, modest and clean,
   E’er please, when presented to view,
Should cabin on brown heath, or green,
   Disclose aught engaging to you,
Should Erin’s wild harp soothe the ear
   When touched by such fingers as mine,
Then kindly attentive draw near,
   And candidly ponder each line.

One day, when December’s keen breath
   Arrested the sweet running rill,
And Nature seemed frozen in death,
   I thoughtfully strolled o’er the hill:
The mustering clouds wore a frown,
   The mountains were covered with snow,
And Winter his mantle of brown
   Had spread o’er the landscape below.

Thick rattling the footsteps were heard
   Of peasants far down in the vale;

From lakes, bogs, and marshes debarred,
   The wild-fowl, aloft on the gale,
Loud gabbling and screaming were borne,
   Whilst thundering guns hailed the day,
And hares sought the thicket forlorn,
   Or, wounded, ran over the way.

No music was heard in the grove,
   The blackbird and linnet and thrush,
And goldfinch and sweet cooing dove,
   Sat pensively mute in the bush: