Friend of the lonely hour, from thy lov’d strain
  The magic pow’r of pleasure have I known: 
Awhile I lose remembrance of my pain,
  And seem to taste of joys that long had flown. 
When o’er my suffering soul reflection casts
  The gloom of sorrow’s sable-shadowing veil,
Recalling sad misfortunes chilling blasts—­
  How sweet to thee to tell the mournful tale! 
And tho’ denied to me the strings to move
  Like heavenly-gifted bards, to whom belong
The power to melt the yielding soul to love,
  Or wake to war, with energetic song. 
Yet thou, my Lyre, canst cheer the gloomy hour,
  When sullen grief asserts her tyrant pow’r.

ADDRESS TO ALBION.

To thee, O Albion! be the tribute paid
  Which sympathy demands, the patriot tear;
While echo’d forth to thy remotest shade,
  Rebellion’s menace sounds in every ear.

Though Gallia’s vaunts should fill the trembling skies,
  ’Till nature’s undiscover’d regions start
At the rude clamor;—­yet, shouldst thou despise,
  While thy brave subjects own a common heart.

But lo! fresh streaming from the Hibernian[*] height
  Her own red torrent wild-eyed faction pours;
While, ’mid her falling ranks, ignobly great,
  Loud vengeance raves, and desperation scours.

Denouncing murderous strife, the rebel train
  Wave their red ensigns of inhuman hate
O’er every hamlet, every peaceful plain;
  Rejecting reason, and despising fate.

Oh! that again our raptur’d eyes could see
  Their ripening crops bloom yellow o’er the land;
Their happy shepherds, like their pasture, free—­
  No more a factious race, a ruffian band.

That albion, once again with concord blest,
  May still support that great, that glorious name,
Which ardent glows in every patriot’s breast,
  And crowns her hoary cliffs with matchless fame.

Then, then, might foreign foes, around our shores,
  Pour the big tempest of their arms in vain;
Then, might they learn that freedom still is ours,
  That Britons still control the subject main.

Oh! all ye kindred pow’rs, awake, arise! 
  On boundless glory’s giant pinions soar;
Let Gallia tremble! while the sounding skies
  Proclaim us free—­’till time shall be no more!

[Footnote*:  This piece was written when Ireland was in a most distracted state.]

SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF
TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE.

His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
  Freedom! thy son, oppress’d so long, is free: 
He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,
  And those shall hail him who have died for thee! 
Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,
  Who scorn’d obedience to usurp’d command: 
Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,
  To tear the rod from proud oppression’s