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A theme for poetry divine,
A theme to' ennoble even mine,
In memorable eighty-nine.

The spring of eighty-nine shall be
An era cherish'd long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty-eight,
That threaten'd England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heaven, that cried-Restore!
Chased, never to assemble more;

And far the richest crown on earth,
If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign,
Sat fast on George's brows again.

Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our queen's long agitated breast,
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone;
Who, losing or supposing lost
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!
O queen of Albion, queen of isles!
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
The eyes that never saw thee shine
With joy not unallied to thine,
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,
And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,

The happiness of answer'd prayers,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.
If they, who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,
'Tis but the natural effect

Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than queen,
Who is beloved where never seen.


O LORD, my best desire fulfill,
And help me to resign

Life, health, and comfort to thy will,
And make thy pleasure mine.
Why should I shrink at thy command,
Whose love forbids my fears?
Or tremble at the gracious hand
That wipes away my tears?
No, let me rather freely yield

What most I prize to Thee;
Who never hast a good withheld,
Or wilt withhold from me.
Thy favour all my journey through
Thou art engaged to grant;
What else I want, or think I do,
"Tis better still to want.

Wisdom and mercy guide my way,
Shall I resist them both?
A poor blind creature of a day,
And crush'd before the moth!

But, ah! my inward spirit cries,

Still bind me to thy sway;

Else the next cloud that veils my skies, Drives all these thoughts away.



IN Scotland's realm where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;

But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found.

For Husband there and Wife may boast
Their union undefiled,

And false ones are as rare almost
As hedge-rows in the wild.

In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare
The history chanced of late—
This history of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.

The spring drew near, each felt a breast With genial instinct fill'd;

They pair'd, and would have built a nest, But found not where to build.

The heaths uncover'd and the moors,
Except with snow and sleet,
Seabeaten rocks, and naked shores,
Could yield them no retreat.

Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Till both grew vex'd and tired;
At length a ship arriving brought
The good so long desired.


A ship!-could such a restless thing
Afford them place of rest?
Or was the merchant charged to bring
The homeless birds a nest?

Hush-Silent hearers profit most—
This racer of the sea

Proved kinder to them than the coast, It served them with a tree.

But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a Mast,
And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle pass'd.
Within that cavity aloft

Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.

Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight-
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.

The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had changed her kind;
goes the male? Far wiser he
Is doubtless left behind?


No-Soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move,
He flew to reach it, by a law
Of never failing love.

Then perching at his consort's side
Was briskly borne along,
The billows and the blast defied,
And cheer'd her with a song.
The seaman with sincere delight
His feather'd shipmates eyes,
Scarce less exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.
For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true!
Hail, honour'd land! a desert where
Not even birds can hide,
Yet parent of this loving pair

Whom nothing could divide.
And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,

Were not afraid to plough the brine
In company with man.

For whose lean country much disdain
We English often show,
Yet from a richer nothing gain
But wantonness and woe.

Be it your fortune, year by year,
The same resource to prove,
And may ye, sometimes landing here,
Instruct us how to love!

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