bears an angel form
And mind, that glorifies her sex's charms;
Meekness and charity her life employ--
A seraph sorrowing for a suffering world!
Lo! too, the Matron, with her household gods,
The deities she worships night and day.
Affection has no bounds, nor language words.
To tell a mother's tender ceaseless charge.
Children! can all your future lore repay
The nights of watchfulness, and days of care,
Which a fond parent gives?--
See, last, sad sight! the hardy British Tar,
Cutlass unsheath'd, unlike the truly brave.
Here, watching, night and day--degenerate lot!
To seize a fisherman, or stop a cart,
Or "fright the wandering spirits from the shore."
His "brief authority" has just detain'd
A boat of cockles and a quart of gin!
The smart Lieutenant's epaulette, methinks,
Blushes at this degrading, pimping trade.--
For deeds like these--let objects be employ'd,
Who never shared their country's high renown!
Adieu! vast Ocean, cradle of the brave,
Tablet of England's glory, and her shield!
To thee--and those dear friends who lured me here,
With hospitality's enchanting smile,
And chased away a little age of woe--
Gratefully--I dedicate these _tuneful lays!_

_July_, 1826.

[Footnote 1: My friend, Captain Samuel Brown, of the Royal Navy, whose
inventions and improvements of the iron chain cable, and various
others connected with the naval service, deserve the gratitude of
his country, independent of the admirable Chain-Pier at Brighton,
a Suspension Bridge over the Tweed, Pier at Newhaven, Bridge at
Heckham, the iron work for Hammersmith Suspension Bridge,
and other successful undertakings.]

SONNET.

MORNING.

Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn
The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings
Her cleanly pail, some fav'rite lay she sings
As sweetly wild and cheerful as the horn.
O! happy girl I may never faithless love,
Or fancied splendour, lead thy steps astray;
No cares becloud the sunshine of thy day,
Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove.
What though thy station dooms thee to be poor,
And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed;
Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed,
And health and peace sit smiling at thy door:
Of these possess'd--thou hast a gracious meed,
Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed!

ON THE DEATH OF DR. ABEL,[1]

Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of
India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1