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That name shall be storied in record sublime,
In the uttermost corners of earth :
Be the glorified land of my birth!
Yes, bury my heart in the boundless sea :
It would burst from a narrower tomb, Should less than an ocean my sepulchre be, Or if wrapped in less horrible gloom !
John Malcolm, Esq.
Outrageous did the loud wind blow
Across the sounding main ; The vessel tossing to and fro,
Could scarce the storm sustain.
Matilda to her fearful breast
Held close her infant dear ;
And waked the tender tear.
Now nearer to the grateful shore,
The shattered vessel drew;
Now shout the exulting crew.
Matilda, with a mother's joy,
Gave thanks to heaven's power ; How fervent she embraced her boy!
How blest the saving hour!
O! much deceived and hapless fair,
Tho' ceased the waves to roar, Thou, from that fatal moment, ne'er
Didst taste of pleasure more.
For, stepping forth from off the deck,
To reach the welcome ground, The babe, enclasping from her neck,
Plunged in the gulph profound.
Amazement-chained ! her haggard eye
Gave not a tear to flow,
She stood a sculptured woe.
To snatch the child from instant death,
Some braved the threatening main, And to recall his fleeting breath
Tried every art in vain.
But when the corse had met her view,
Stretched on the pebbly strand, Roused from her exstacy she flew,
And pierced th' opposing band.
With tresses discomposed and rude,
Fell prostrate on the ground, To the infant's lips, her lips she glued,
And sorrow burst its bound.
Now throwing round a troubled glance,
With madness' ráy inflamed, And, breaking from her silent trance,
She wildly thus exclaimed:
ye the helpless infant scream ? Saw ye the mother bold ? How, as she flung him in the stream,
The billows o'er him rolled ?
But soft, awhile-see! there he lies,
Embalmed in infant sleep;
What cause is here to weep ?
· Yes, yes-his little life is fled,
His heaveless breast is cold ;
When thy sad tale is told !
Ah me! that cheek of livid hue
That brow-that auburn hair Those lips where late the roses blew,
All, all my son declare.
Strange thrilling horrors chill each vein
A voice in accents wild, Thunders to this distracted brain,
Matilda slew her child !
She added not-but sunk oppressed,
Death on her eye-lids stole ;
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My choir shall be the moonlight wayes,
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,