Thomas Odiorne

How pleasant is this place! E'en in this month
Of winds I love my home. The sky is cold
And clear. Behind the house the north wind raves;
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Ope, Light of Life! and, with a ray divine,
Illume the soul of thy devoted Bard,
While he, with reverential awe profound,
Attempts to show, (if 'tis no crime to show,)
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Along a bushy slope, amongst the cliffs,
Near, where its head a rugged upland lifts,
A living fountain sends a crystal rill,
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When on the stage fam'd Garrick trod,
And shook the benches by a nod,
His author's genius all his own,
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O sacred Book of knowledge, all divine,
The Bible! richer than the golden mine!
The sun of moral systems, it unfolds
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LO! half emerg'd from realms of eastern waves,
The moon her face in ocean-azure laves:
She lifts her head, and casts, in cheerful light,
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Lo! when the sexes we comprise,
And mark the divers traits that rise,
How much more delicate we find,
Woman than man, in frame and mind!
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Ah, why is woman thus by man ador'd,
The comeliest object in creation's hoard?
Ah why, where Nature's plastic hand neglects,
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Upon the plains of Jersey wide extended,
Where landscapes late my pleas'd attention drew,
Cooper's plantation with enchantments blended,
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When we peruse the hist'ry of mankind,
And learn what crimes have been! Oh! how it wounds
The soul, to think that, of all beings here,
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Mercy! what light'ning! and an afterclap
So soon, excites an awful dread!—the thought
Of a hereafter!—an eternal world!
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Hark! the native warbler sings!
To charm his mate upon her nest,
The guardian of her rest,
He tells the most melodious things
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Oh! why should man, of such exalted feature,
With soul constructed on the moral plan,
Indulge his passions as the fiercest creature,
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O come, thou cherub of enchanting vision,
Man's beck'ning angel through the scenes of care;
In adverse fortune make the best provision,
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'Tis winter! frost has blasted all the plains,
And desolation bleak o'er nature reigns!
Convolv'd in darkling clouds upon the poles,
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Hail, sacred Ark of ever sure reliance,
Ne'er known to meet perdition on a shoal;
Thou, buoyant, bid'st life's dashing sea defiance,
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Lo! beyond the distant bog,
As the peasant chops a log—
Hark! the sound, in long suspense,
Cheats the stroke, and balks the sense;
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SECTION I.
Morn—Apostrophe to Nature—Imagined Efforts under other Circumstances.
The dayspring now in yon glad east appears,
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On the dark rolling of yon dreadful tides,
Glad of the dawn, a labouring vessel rides;
Her men on deck in observation stand,
And, long depriv'd, rejoice to see the land.
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At the first glow of morn,
When jocund spring was born,
Aurelius caught, by mountain-side,
The blooming Kate, the hamlet's pride.
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