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At last a slave bethought her of a harp;

The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; At first the notes irregular and sharp

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent ; Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp,

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent, And he begun a long low island song,

Of ancient days-ere tyranny grew strong.

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall

In time to his old tune; he changed the theme,

And sung of love: the fierce name struck through all

Her recollection; on her flashed the dream

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call

To be so being; in a gushing stream

The tears rushed forth from her unclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

Short solace, vain relief!—thought came too quick,
And whirled her brain to madness; she arose
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met, as on her foes;
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,
Although her paroxysm drew towards its close :
Hers was a phrenzy which disdained to rave,
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.

Yet she betrayed at times a gleam of sense;

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace;
Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence

Availed for either; neither change of place,
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her
Senses to sleep-the power seemed gone for ever.

Twelve days and nights she withered thus: at last,
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show
A parting pang, the spirit from her past;

And they who watched her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast

Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glazed o'er her eyes-the beautiful, the blackOh! to possess such lustre-and then lack!



Sweet flowers! that, from your humble beds
Thus prematurely dare to rise,

And trust your unprotected heads
To cold Aquarius' watery skies;

Retire, retire! These tepid airs
Are not the genial brood of May;
That sun with light malignant glares,
And flatters only to betray.

Stern winter's reign is not yet past—
Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
On icy pinions comes the blast,

And nips your root, and lays you low.

Alas for such ungentle doom!

But I will shield you; and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die.

Come then-ere yet the morning ray

Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away

O come, and grace my Anna's breast.


Ye droop, fond flowers! But, did ye know,

What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow,

And spread their leaves with conscious pride

For there has liberal nature joined
Her riches to the stores of art,
And added to the vigorous mind,
The soft, the sympathising heart.

Come then-ere yet the morning ray
Has drunk the dew that gems your crest,
And draw your balmiest sweets away;
O come, and grace my Anna's breast.

O! I should think,-that fragrant bed
Might I but hope with you to share,-
Years of anxiety repaid,

By one short hour of transport there.

More blest than me, thus shall ye live
Your little day; and, when ye die,
Sweet flowers! the grateful muse shall give
A verse; the sorrowing maid, a sigh.

While I, alas! no distant date,

Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate,

Without a stone to tell my name.



When gathering clouds around I view,
And days are dark, and friends are few,
On Him I lean, who not in vain,
Experienced every human pain.
He sees my griefs, allays my fears,
And counts and treasures up my tears.

If aught should tempt my soul to stray
From heavenly wisdom's narrow way :
To fly the good I would pursue,
Or do the thing I would not do :
Still He, who felt temptation's power
Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.

If wounded love my bosom swell,
Despised by those I prized too well;
He shall his pitying aid bestow,
Who felt on earth severer woe;
At once betrayed, denied, or fled,
By those who shared his daily bread.

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