Even thou, as thou learnest to prate, Dear babe-while remotely I rove— Shall count it a duty to hate Where nature commands thee to love. The foul tongue of malice shall peal And oh! if in some distant day, Thine ear may be struck with my lyre, And nature's true index may say, << It may be it must be my sire!»> Perchance to thy prejudiced eye Yet sure in this isle, where my songs Have echo'd from mountain and dell, Some tongue the sad tale of my wrongs With grateful emotion may tell. Some youth, who had valued my lay, To thee e'en may venture to say, « His frailties were those of a man. » They were; they were human, but swell'd and malice and scorn, By envy Each feeling of nature rebell'd, And hated the mask it had worn. Though human the fault-how severe, 'Tis past: the great struggle is o'er; 'Tis past: my affections give way, I fly, like a bird of the air, In search of a home and a rest; And swift as the swallow that floats, Yet dull as the owlet, whose notes Where gleam the gay splendours of East, The dance and the bountiful board; I'll bear me to luxury's feast, To exile the form I adored. In full-brimming goblets I'll quaff Where pleasure invites will I roam, Farewell to thee, land of the brave! Farewell to thee, land of my birth! When tempests around thee shall rave, Still-still may they homage thy worth! Wife, infant, and country, and friend, To The grim-visaged fiend of the storm Till death calm the tumult to rest. TO MY DAUGHTER, ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH. HAIL to this teeming stage of strife! Lamb of the world's extended fold! Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears! How could I fainly bend the knee, 'Tis nature's worship-felt-confess'd, In trackless woods and boundless plains, Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care, But little reck'st thou, oh my child! And the dark mystic sphere behind! Little reck'st thou, my earliest born, Of snares that intersect thy way, Of secret foes, of friends untrue, Of fiends who stab the hearts they woo— Would thou might'st never reck them more! But thou wilt burst this transient sleep, Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd; Beguiled by follies every day, Sorrow must wash the faults away, And thou may'st wake, perchance, to prove The pang of unrequited love. |