Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains,

On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far-projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest played!

There oft a restless Indian queen

(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair) And many a barbarous form is seen

To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews;
In habit for the chase arrayed,

The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

TO A DOG

[Occasioned by putting him on shore at the Island of Sapola, for theft]

Since Nature taught you, Tray, to be a thief,
What blame have you, for working at your trade?

What if you stole a handsome round of beef;

Theft, in your code of laws, no crime was made.

The ten commandments you had never read,
Nor did it ever enter in your head:

But art and Nature, careful to conceal,

Disclos'd not even the Eighth — Thou shalt not steal.

Then to the green wood, caitiff, haste away:

There take your chance to live

- for Truth must say,

We have no right, for theft, to hang up Tray.

ON THE SLEEP OF PLANTS

When suns are set, and stars in view,
Not only man to slumber yields;
But Nature grants this blessing too,
To yonder plants, in yonder fields.

The Summer heats and lengthening days
(To them the same as toil and care)
Thrice welcome make the evening breeze,
That kindly does their strength repair.

At early dawn each plant survey,
And see, revived by Nature's hand,
With youthful vigour, fresh and gay,
Their blossoms blow, their leaves expand.

Yon' garden plant, with weeds o'er-run,
Not void of thought, perceives its hour,
And, watchful of the parting sun,
Throughout the night conceals her flower.

Like us, the slave of cold and heat,
She too enjoys her little span

With Reason, only less complete

Than that which makes the boast of man.

Thus, moulded from one common clay,
A varied life adorns the plain;

By Nature subject to decay,

By Nature meant to bloom again!

TO MY BOOK

Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling volume,
Since, to all knavish wights a foe,

I sent you forth to vex and gall 'em,

Or drive them to the shades below:

With spirit, still, of Democratic proof,
And still despising Shylock's canker'd hoof:
What doom the fates intend, is hard to say,
Whether to live to some far-distant day,
Or sickening in your prime,

In this bard-baiting clime,

Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.

"Virtue, order, and religion,

"Haste, and seek some other region;
"Your plan is laid, to hunt them down,
"Destroy the mitre, rend the gown,
"And that vile hag, Philosophy, restore"-
Did ever volume plan so much before?

For seven years past, a host of busy foes
Have buzz'd about your nose,

White, black, and grey, by night and day;
Garbling, lying, singing, sighing:

These eastern gales a cloud of insects bring

That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering - on the wing

And, wafted still as discord's demon guides,

Flock round the flame, that yet shall singe their hides.

Well! let the fates decree whate'er they please:
Whether you're doom'd to drink oblivion's cup,
Or Praise-God Barebones eats you up,
This I can say, you've spread your wings afar,
Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and star;
Still on the people's, still on Freedom's side,
With full determin'd aim, to baffle every claim
Of well-born wights, that aim to mount and ride.

1 A well-known insect, when full grown, about two inches in length, and of the exact color of a green leaf. It is of the genus cicada, or grasshopper kind, inhabiting the green foliage of trees and singing such a song as Caty-did in the evening, towards autumn.