Rear high the column, bid the marble breathe,
Pour soft the verse, and twine the laureate wreath;
From year to year let musing Memory shed
Her tenderest tears, to grace the glorious dead. 
’Tis ours with grateful ardour to sustain
The wounded veteran on his bed of pain;
To soothe the widow, sunk in anguish deep,
Whose orphan weeps to see its mother weep.

Oh! when, outstretch’d on that triumphant field,
The prostrate Warrior felt his labours seal’d;
Felt, ’midst the shout of Victory pealing round,
Life’s eddying stream fast welling from his wound;
Perchance Affection bade her visions rise—­
Wife, children, floated o’er his closing eyes: 
For them alone he heaved the bitter sigh;
Yet for his country glorying thus to die! 
To her bequeath’d them with his parting breath,
And sunk serene in unregretted death.—­

To no cold ear was that appeal prefer’d;
With glowing bosom grateful England heard;
With liberal hand she pours the prompt relief,
Soothes the sick head, and wipes the tear of grief.

Our humble efforts consecrate, to-night,
To this great cause, our small but willing mite. 
Bright are the wreaths the warrior’s urn which grace,
And bless’d the bounty that protects his race! 
Thus warm’d, thus waken’d, with congenial fire,
Each hero’s son shall emulate his sire;
From age to age prolong the glorious line,
And guard their country with a shield divine!

THE NIGHT-BLOWING CEREUS.

Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair,
  To give thy perfumes to the dews of night? 
Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare,
  And fade, and sicken in the morning light?

Yes! peerless flower, the Heavens alone exhale
  Thy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest,
And incense wafted by the midnight gale,
  Untainted rises from thy spotless breast.

How like that Faith whose nature is apart
  From human gaze, to love and work unseen,
Which gives to God an undivided heart,
  In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene;
That night-flower of the soul, whose fragrant power
Breathes on the darkness of the closing hour!

1827;

OR, THE POET’S LAST POEM.

Ye Bards in all your thousand dens,
Great souls with fewer pence than pens,
Sublime adorers of Apollo,
With folios full, and purses hollow;
Whose very souls with rapture glisten,
When you can find a fool to listen;
Who, if a debt were paid by pun,
Would never be completely done. 
Ye bright inhabitants of garrets,
Whose dreams are rich in ports and clarets,
Who, in your lofty paradise,
See aldermanic banquets rise—­
And though the duns around you troop,
Still float in seas of turtle soup. 
I here forsake the tuneful trade,
Where none but lordlings now are paid,
Or where some northern rogue sits puling,
(The curse of universal schooling)—­
A ploughman to his country lost,
An author to his printer’s cost—­
A slave to every man who’ll buy him,
A knave to every man who’ll try him—­
Yet let him take the pen, at once
The laurel gathers round his sconce!