The Philosopher and the King.

Know this, O King! that if thou shalt destroy
Me, no man's enemy and who have liv'd
Obedient to the Laws, thou may'st with ease
Strike off a wise man's head, but, taught the truth
Hereafter, shalt with vain regret deplore
Thy city's loss of One, her chief support.

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call’d
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall’d
From exile, public sale, and slavery’s chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong’d, the fetter-gall’d,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain’d the ear
Of Britain’s senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and, though cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe,
By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above.

Ne commonentem recta sperne.—Buchanan.


Despise not my good counsel.


He who sits from day to day
Where the prison’d lark is hung,
Heedless of his loudest lay,
Hardly knows that he has sung.


Where the watchman in his round
Nightly lifts his voice on high,
None, accustom’d to the sound,
Wakes the sooner for his cry.


So your verse-man I, and clerk,
Yearly in my song proclaim
Death at hand—yourselves his mark—
And the foe’s unerring aim.


Duly at my time I come,
Publishing to all aloud—
Soon the grave must be your home,
And your only suit, a shroud.


But the monitory strain,
Oft repeated in your ears,
Seems to sound too much in vain,
Wins no notice, wakes no fears.
<...

Learn ye nations of the earth
The condition of your birth,
Now be taught your feeble state,
Know, that all must yield to Fate!

If the mournful Rover, Death,
Say but once-resign your breath-
Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.

Could the stoutest overcome
Death's assault, and baffle Doom,                
Hercules had both withstood
Undiseas'd by Nessus' blood.[2]

Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain
By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the Chief to Jove allied[3]
By Achilles' phantom died.

Could enchantments life prolong,
Circe, saved by magic song,
Still had liv'd, and equal skill
Had preserv'd Medea still.[4]                                    

Dwelt in herbs ...

Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!—Virg.


Happy the mortal who has traced effects
To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet
And death and roaring hell’s voracious fires!


Thankless for favours from on high,
Man thinks he fades too soon;
Though ‘tis his privilege to die,
Would he improve the boon.


But he, not wise enough to scan
His blest concerns aright,
Would gladly stretch life’s little span
To ages, if he might.


To ages in a world of pain,
To ages, where he goes
Gall’d by affliction’s heavy chain,
And hopeless of repose.


Strange fondness of the human heart,
Enamour’d of its harm!

Doom’d, as I am, in solitude to waste
The present moments, and regret the past;
Deprived of every joy I valued most,
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost;
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,
The dull effect of humour, or of spleen!
Still, still I mourn, with each returning day,
Him[1] snatch’d by fate in early youth away;
And her—thro’ tedious years of doubt and pain,
Fix’d in her choice, and faithful—but in vain!
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere,
Whose eye ne’er yet refused the wretch a tear;
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows;
Nor thinks a lover’s are but fancied woes;
See me—ere yet my destined course half done,
Cast forth a wand’rer on a world unknown!
See me neglected on the world’s rude coast,
Each dea...