Page:Records of the Life of the Rev. John Murray.djvu/254

The Merchant watch'd his eye; the sons of Art,
The Swain who turns the glebe, but chiefly he
On glory bent, who plough'd the watery way,
Panting to grasp the treasures of the globe,
He carefully this Pole-star still observ'd,
And safely voyaged, with this star in view.
How wild, alas! he'll wander now 'tis hid.

The secrets of all states, blest heaven-taught sage,
To thy pervading eye were all unveil'd,
And every dark intrigue was known to thee.
The Gallic power trembled at thy nod,
And proud Castalia, cowering, bent to thee.
In dire suspense the awe-struck Nations stood,
Nor could predict where next would burst the storm.

Lo! as he points, our Castles float along,
And British thunders roll from shore to shore;
The sooty tribes of Afric shrink appall'd,
And China's crafty sons distrust their skill.

In this great Legislator's hand, our flag,
Like that fam'd wand into a serpent chang'd,
As Hebrew sages sung in days of yore,
Made every other flag obsequious bow,
And every Nation own'd or felt his power.
But, while remotest lands through fear obey'd,
His grateful Country serv'd with filial love,
And every son of Albion shar'd his care.

Nor did the British garden, blooming round,
Alone engage the heavenly labourer's toil;
With watchful eye he view'd those tender shoots,
Whilome transplanted to Columbia's soil;
Those tender lambs he gently led along,
And to their plaints still bent a parent's ear.
Dear, much lov'd offspring of this happy Isle,
With us, sincere, ye mourn the common loss;
With us lament the Father and the Friend:
But, while our bursting hearts deplore his flight,
Perfidious Bourbon ghastly grins his joy;
The Gallic Cock now feebly claps his wings
And thinks to hear the Lion roar no more.
Base, treacherous, cringing, dastard slaves, beware;
Although our Sun be set to rise no more,
The moon and stars shall guide the Lion's paw
To seize thee trembling in thy close retreat.
Already mark! he shakes his shaggy mane,
And growling rises from his murky den;
His eye-balls roll with rage—they shoot forth flames,
He grinds his teeth, and finds them solid still;
He tries his paws, and finds his talons strong.
Our groans have rous'd him; see, he sleeps no more,
But still the royal issue of this Isle,