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He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
And darted on the Bruce at once.

-As motionless as rocks, that bide
The wrath of the advancing tide,

The Bruce stood fast.-Each breast beat high,
And dazzled was each gazing eye.-
The heart had hardly time to shrink,
The eye-lid scarce had time to wink,
While on the king, like flash of flame,
Spurred to full speed the war-horse came!--
The partridge may the falcon mock,
If that slight palfrey stand the shock!--
But, swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear.
Onward the baffled warrior bore

His course-but soon his course was o'er!
High in his stirrups stood the king,
And gave his battle-axe the swing.
Right on De Boune, the whiles he passed,
Fell that stern dint--the first-the last!-
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crashed like hazel-nut;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shivered to the gauntlet grasp.
Springs from the blow the startled horse-
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse!
First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

XXVII. THE MOTHER AND HER DEAD CIIII D.-Moir,

WITH ceaseless sorrow, uncontrolled,

The mother mourned her lot;

She wept, and would not be consoled,

Because her child was not.

She gazed upon its nursery floor-

But there it did not play;

The toys it loved, the clothes it wore,

All void and vacant lay.

Her house, her heart, were dark and drear,
Without their wonted light,

The little star had left its sphere.
That there had shone so bright.

Her tears, at each returning thought.
Fell like the frequent rain;

Time on its wings no healing brought,
And Wisdom spoke in vain.

Even in the middle hour of night
She sought no soft relief;

But, by the taper's misty light,

Sat nourishing her grief.

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'Twas then a sight of solemn awe
Rose near her like a cloud :-
The image of her child she saw,
Wrapped in its little shroud!
It sat within its favourite chair;
It sat, and seemed to sigh,
And turned upon its mother there
A meek, imploring eye.

'O child! what brings that breathless form
Back from its place of rest?

For, well I know, no life can warm
Again that livid breast.

"The grave is now your bed my child,
Go slumber there in peace!"-

"I cannot go," it answered mild,
"Until your sorrow cease.

"I've tried to rest in that dark bed,
But rest I cannot get;

For always, with the tears you shed,
My winding-sheet is wet.

"The drops, dear mother! trickle still
Into my coffin deep:

It feels so comfortless and chill,
I cannot go to sleep!"

"O child! those words-that touching look,

My fortitude restore:

I feel and own the blest rebuke,

And weep thy loss no more.'

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She spoke, and dried her tears the while;
And, as her passion fell,

The vision wore an angel smile,

And looked a fond farewell!

XXVIII. THE AFRICAN CHIEF.-Bryant.

CHAINED in the market-place he stood-a man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude, that shrunk to hear his name:
All stern of look, and strong of limb, his dark eye on the ground :-
And silently they gazed on him, as on a lion bound.

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought he was a captive now;
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, was written on his brow.

The scars his dark broad bosom wore, showed warrior true and brave;
A prince among his tribe before, he could not be a slave!

Then to his conqueror he spake "My brother is a king;
Undo this necklace from my neck, and take this bracelet ring,
And send me where my brother reigns; and I will fill thy hands
With store of ivory from the plains, and gold-dust from the sands."

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'Not for thy ivory nor thy gold will I unbind thy chain;

That fettered hand shall never hold the battle-spear again.
A price thy nation never gave, shall yet be paid for thee;

For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, in lands beyond the sea."

Then wept the warrior-chief, and bade to shred his locks away,
And, one by one, each heavy braid before the victor lay.
Thick were the plaited locks, and long; and deftly hidden there,
Shone many a wedge of gold, among the dark and crisped hair.
"Look! feast thy greedy eyes with gold, long kept for sorest need;
Take it--thou askest sums untold, and say that I am freed.
Take it!--my wife, the long, long day weeps by the cocoa-tree,
And my young children leave their play and ask in vain for me.'
"I take thy gold--but I have made thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa-shade thy wife will wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook the captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look was changed to mortal fear.
His heart was broken--crazed his brain; at once his eye grew wild;
He struggled fiercely with his chain, whispered, and wept, and
smiled:

Yet wore not long those fatal bands; for soon, at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands, the foul hyena's prey.

XXIX. THE SLAVE'S PETITION.-Mrs. Norton.

It was an aged man, who stood beside the blue Atlantic sea; They cast his fetters by the flood, and hailed the time-worn captive free;

From his indignant eye there flashed a gleam his better nature gave; And while his tyrants shrank abashed, thus spoke the spirit-stricken Slave:

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'Bring back the chain, whose weight so long these tortured limbs have vainly borne;

The word of freedom from your tongue, my weary ear rejects with scorn!

'Tis true, there was there was a time, I sighed, I panted to be free, And, pining for my sunny clime, bowed down my stubborn knee. "Then I have stretched my yearning arms, and shook in wrath my galling chain;—

Then, when the magic word had charms, I groaned for Liberty, in vain!

That freedom ye at length bestow, and bid me bless my envied fate: Ye tell me I am free to go--where?—I am desolate!

"The boundless hope the spring of joy, felt when the spirit's strength is young;

Which slavery only can alloy,--the mockeries to which I clung; The eyes, whose fond and sunny ray made life's dull lamp less dimly burn,

The tones I pined for day by day,-can ye bid them return?

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'Bring back the chain !—its clanking sound hath now a power beyond

your own;

It brings young visions smiling round, too fondly loved--too early flown!

It brings me days when these dim eyes gazed o'er the wild and

swelling sea,

Counting how many suns must rise ere one might hail me free!

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"Bring back the chain! that I may think 'tis that which weighs my

spirit so;

And, gazing on each galling link, dream- -as I dreamt-of bitter woe! My days are gone;--of hope, of youth, these traces now alone remain-

(Hoarded with sorrow's sacred truth)-tears, and my iron chain! Freedom!--Though doomed in pain to live, the freedom of the soul is mine;

But all of slavery you could give, around my steps must ever twine. Raise up the head which age hath bent, renew the hopes that childhood gave,

Bid all return kind Heaven once lent;-till then-I am a slave!"

XXX.-THE FELON.-M. G. Lewis.

OH! mark his wan and hollow cheeks, and mark his eye-balls' glare, And mark his teeth in anguish clinched-the anguish of despair! Know, three days since, his penance o'er, yon culprit left a jail ; And since three days, no food has passed those lips, so parched and pale. “Where shall I turn?" the wretch exclaims; "where hide my shameful head?

How fly from scorn, or how contrive to earn an honest bread? This branded hand would gladly toil; but when for work I pray, Who views this mark A felon!' cries, and loathing turns away.

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My heart has greatly erred-but now would fain return to good! My hand has deeply sinned-but yet has ne'er been stained with

blood!

For alms, or work, in vain I sue the scorners both deny:

I starve! I starve! Then what remains? this choice-to sin, or die!

"Here, Virtue spurns me with disdain,-there, Pleasure spreads her

snare;

Strong habit drives me back to vice; and, urged by fierce despair, I strive, while hunger gnaws my heart, to fly from shame-in vain! World! 'tis thy cruel will!-I yield, and plunge in guilt again!

"There's mercy, in each ray of light that mortal eyes e'er saw; There's mercy, in each breath of air that mortal lips e'er draw; There's mercy, both for bird and beast in Heaven's indulgent plan; There's mercy, in each creeping thing--but man has none for man!

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'Ye proudly honest! when you heard my wounded conscience groan, Had generous hand, or feeling heart, one glimpse of mercy shown; That act had made, from burning eyes, sweet tears of virtue roll, Had fixed my heart, assured my faith and heaven had gained a soul!"

XXXI. THE SAILOR.-Rogers.

THE sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;

He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more,
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear domestic scene he knew,—
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,-
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;

Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by Time.
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;
This, the last wish that would with life depart
To see the smile of her he loves again!
When morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he views the parting look she gave.
Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,

Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, In many a plantain-forest waving wide: Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail! Lo! o'er the cliff, what eager figures bend! And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale! In each, he hears the welcome of a friend!

'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!__ Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled;

Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world!

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XXXII. THE ORPHAN BOY.-Mrs. Opie.

STAY, Lady! stay for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless Orphan's tale!
Ah! sure, my looks must pity wake,
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.

Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died-
And I am now an Orphan Boy!
Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy,
For with my father's life 'twas bought-
And made me a poor Orphan Boy!
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears
Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd;
My mother answered with her tears.

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