Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol III, No 13, 1851 - Various

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time and language o'er thy genius thrown.

      May my song soften, as thy daughters I,

      Britannia, hail! for beauty is their own,

      The feeling heart, simplicity of life,

      And elegance, and taste; the faultless form,

      Shap'd by the hand of harmony; the cheek,

      Where the live crimson, through the native white

      Soft-shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom,

      And every nameless grace; the parted lip,

      Like the red rose-bud moist with morning dew,

      Breathing delight; and, under flowing jet,

      Or sunny ringlets, or of circling brown,

      The neck slight-shaded, and the swelling breast,

      The look resistless, piercing to the soul,

      And by the soul informed, when dress'd in love

      She sits high-smiling in the conscious eye.

      Island of bliss! amid the subject seas

      That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up,

      At once the wonder, terror, and delight

      Of distant nations; whose remotest shore

      Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm;

      Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults

      Baffling, like thy hoar cliffs the loud sea-wave.

      O Thou by whose almighty nod the scale

      Of empire rises, or alternate falls,

      Send forth the saving virtues round the land,

      In bright patrol: white peace, and social love;

      The tender-looking charity, intent

      On gentle deeds, and shedding tears through smiles

      Undaunted truth, and dignity of mind;

      Courage compos'd, and keen; sound temperance,

      Healthful in heart and look; clear chastity,

      With blushes reddening as she moves along,

      Disorder'd at the deep regard she draws;

      Rough industry; activity untir'd,

      With copious life inform'd, and all awake;

      While in the radiant front, superior shines

      That first paternal virtue, public zeal —

      Who throws o'er all an equal wide survey,

      And, ever musing on the common weal,

      Still labors glorious with some great design.

      Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees,

      Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds

      Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train,

      In all their pomp attend his setting throne.

      Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now

      As if his weary chariot sought the bowers

      Of Amphitritè and her tending nymphs,

      (So Grecian fable sung) he dips his orb;

      Now half immers'd; and now a golden curve;

      Gives one bright glance, then total disappears

      Forever running an enchanted round,

      Passes the day, deceitful, vain, and void;

      As fleets the vision o'er the formful brain,

      This moment hurrying wild the impassion'd soul,

      The next in nothing lost. 'Tis so to him,

      The dreamer of this earth, an idle blank:

      A sight of horror to the cruel wretch

      Who, all day long in sordid pleasure roll'd,

      Himself an useless load, has squander'd vile,

      Upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheer'd

      A drooping family of modest worth.

      But to the generous still-improving mind,

      That gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy,

      Diffusing kind beneficence around,

      Boastless, as now descends the silent dew —

      To him the long review of order'd life

      Is inward rapture, only to be felt.

      Confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds,

      All ether softening, sober evening takes

      Her wonted station in the middle air;

      A thousand shadows at her beck. First this

      She sends on earth; then that of deeper dye

      Steals soft behind, and then a deeper still,

      In circle following circle, gathers round,

      To close the face of things. A fresher gale

      Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream,

      Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn;

      While the quail clamors for his running mate,

      Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze,

      A whitening shower of vegetable down

      Amusive floats. The kind impartial care

      Of Nature naught disdains: thoughtful to feed

      Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year,

      From field to field the feather'd seeds she wings.

      His folded flock secure, the shepherd home

      Hies, merry-hearted; and by turns relieves

      The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail;

      The beauty whom perhaps his witless heart,

      Unknowing what the joy-mix'd anguish means

      Sincerely loves, by that best language shown

      Of cordial glances and obliging deeds.

      Onward they pass, o'er many a panting height,

      And valley sunk, and unfrequented; where

      At fall of eve the fairy people throng,

      In various game and revelry to pass

      The summer night, as village stories tell.

      But far about they wander from the grave

      Of him, whom his ungentle fortune urg'd

      Against his own sad breast to lift the hand

      Of impious violence. The lonely tower

      Is also shunn'd; whose mournful chambers hold,

      So night-struck fancy dreams, the yelling ghost.

      Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,

      The glow-worm lights his gem; and, through the dark,

      A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields

      The world to night; not in her winter robe

      Of massy Stygian woof, but loose array'd

      In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray,

      Glanc'd from the imperfect surfaces of things,

      Flings half an image on the straining eye;

      While wavering woods, and villages, and streams,

      And rocks, and mountain tops, that long retain'd

      The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,

      Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven

      Thence weary vision turns; where, leading soft

      The silent hours of love, with purest ray

      Sweet

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