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Written by Eric XIV, King of Sweden, in Prison \ TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH.
With heartfelt contrite cries,
For all my faults I grieve:
May Heav'n receive my sighs!
And thou, O Lord, relieve!
Stricken for sin I languish;
My heart is rent with pain;
Thou, Lord, canst ease mine anguish,
All other hope is vain.
Some breach of thy commands Each day my heart can trace;
And thus not only stands
Unworthy of thy grace; But prone to bad desires,
It evil will not shun;
And good thy word inspires,
It daily leaves undone.
• Eric succeeded his father, the great Gustavus Erickson, ia 1560; but his younger brothers entered into a conspiracy, and dethroned him on pretence ot rnal-admuiistratiop, aqd he was at length poisoned by his second brother John.
What mercy can I share,
Who thus deserve the rod?Do thou in pity spare,
My Saviour! and my God!
0! may my sighs ascending, Thy gracious bosom find!A bosom e'er befriending The penitential mind.
Jesu! 'tis thou alone
My spirit can console; O, may thy blood atone,
And make my spirit whole! And when a tranquil moment
My heart refresh'd regains; O, may the same atonement
Release me from sin's chains!
O, may the Lord of Grace
My soul prepare and guide, To that celestial place
Where blessed souls abide! Thus to my prayer be given
The triumph of the day; That I may taste of Heav'n,
Whilst here on earth I stay.
To thee, O God! I haste.
With grace a sinner greet! With joy my load I cast,
At thine almighty feet.
1 mourn, by error taken,
By snares of sin betray'd:Then save a child forsaken,
Relying on thine aid!
TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH.
It ne'er can be a joy of mine
To drown an useful day in wine;
But when the friendly circle meet,
The chearful, social glass is sweet.
Five senses given for delight,
To equal toasts our minds invite;
And if we fairly drink them up,
Thirst will not need another cup.
My first must e'er devoted be
To her who is the world to me;
Whose tender love all care dispels,
All rapture in whose bosom dwells.
Ye gen'rous Friends! ye chosen few!
My next I consecrate to you;
From you the charms I've learnt to prize
Of cheating, soothing sympathies.
This patriot vow will then demand
A bumper to my native land;
"May Union's wreaths forever twine
"Around fair Freedom's holy shrine!"
Next greets my heart's applauding sense,
The man of pure beneficence;
Him, who can selfish pleasure scorn,
To aid the wretched and forlorn.
The honor of my liberal host
Must be my fifth concluding toast;
And whilst I such libation pour,
My spirits tell, I want no more.
Thy house is thine alone; this well we know;
The cellar too—we knew it long ago—
Nor do we need, O Gripus, to be told
None ever share thy table, or thy gold.
Not, to this hour, would mortal e'er have known
A part in ought that thou couldst call thy own,
Hadst thou not, Gripus, ta'en it in thy head,
Thanks to our stars! a handsome girl to wed.
Written on the 11 th of September, 1804, the Anniver* tart/ of the Day on which William Preston, jun. was killed at the battle of Dehli, East Indies.
While Memory, fraught with images of woe,
Bids the sigh murmur, and the sorrows flow,
And Fancy holds a picture to my view,
And feelings agonize to find it true;
Why should I wander for poetic theme,
To fabled sufferings, and to fiction's dream?
By foreign sorrows of the tear beguil'd,
That ought to flow for my departed Child.
Plague, Famine, War, all ills that torture mind,
Rage thro' the failing ranks of human kind:
For comfort should the sicken'd spirit roam,
The prospect round reflects the grief at home.
Oft at the hour when other mortals sleep,
I think of thee, my Son, and wake to weep.
While thoughts transport me to the fatal plain,
Where clouds sulphureous hide the warring train;
And, as the peals of mimic thunders sound,
The prostrate ranks are strew'd along the ground.