In every change of fortune or of clime,

In every stage of man's uncertain lot, The more endeared by distance and by time,

Affection's sacred home is unforgot. There lives the spell that wakes the sweetest tear

In feeling's eye, and cheers the troubled brow; There dwells each joy the tender heart holds dear ;

There ties are formed that none may disavow;And cold is he to nature's finer sway, Who doomed to wander, weeps not on his way!


From that dear circle peace will never fly,

While love and tender sympathy remain To foil the glance of care's malignant eye,

And render powerless the hand of pain. The restless throng that haunt ambition's shrine,

And madly scorn the sweet domestic sphere, Condemned ere long, in shame and grief to pine,

And curse their wild and profitless career, From envy's scowl, and flattery's hollow strain, Turn in despair, and seek repose in vain !


Queen of the Nations ! Island of the brave!

Home of my youth ! and idol of my heart ! Though far beyond the broad Atlantic wave,

My boundless love shall but with life depart.

Forms of domestic joy, a long adieu !
These withered plains but wake my ceaseless tears ;

These foreign crowds my fond regrets renew;
For lone and sad, from friends and kindred torn,
My path is dreary, and my breast forlorn !


Star of the wanderer's soul! Unrivalled Land !

Hallowed by many a dream of days gone by!
Though distant far, thy charms my thoughts command,

And gleam on fancy's sad reverted eye.
And though no more my weary feet may stray

O'er thy green hills, or down each flowery vale, Where rippling streams beneath the bright sun play,

And throw their gladdening music on the gale, There are fond hopes that will not all depart, 'Till Death's cold fingers tear them from the heart !


Vain, faithless visions ! 'Mid each earthly ill,

The soul can darken, or the bosom wring, Why haunt ye thus the lonely mourner still,

And fitful radiance o'er life's ruins fling? Meteors that cross my solitary way,

Oh! cease to mock the tempest of despair ! Scourge of the clime! pale Sickness holds her sway,

And bids my lacerated heart prepare
To meet in foreign lands the wanderer's doom-
An early fate, and unlamented tomb !

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Oh! what a fearful mystery is life
When dark unuttered thoughts to bliss succeed !
Awhile my dreaming soul was calm, and freed
From doubt and care, and passion's feverish strife;
The wide world glowed in fancy's mellow light
Like evening landscapes in the golden sun;
But now, as night-clouds when the day is done,
Funereal shadows crowd upon my sight!
I dare not look before me nor behind,
And start at every sound ;-I feel alone,
Though not unloved, for who at such an hour
May comprehend or mingle with the mind
Struggling with visions dread ?-Alas ! no tone
Of human voice hath then a soothing power!

SONNET*. WELL may that gentle Mother's heart be proud, And those glad looks to friendship's eye appeal To own how fair her treasures ! They can feel, And they alone, that shun the restless crowd Whom gain's false glare or glory's clarion loud From calm delights and home-enchantments steal, How little for all other wealth or weal Her heart need sigh while richly thus endowed. Let but the sun of joy serenely shine On those sweet human flowers, and Fortune's brow May change unheeđed-she can ne'er repine ; While thus their bright eyes gleam, their fresh cheeks glow, Her bliss maternal seemeth half-divineThe holiest that a mortal breast may know !

* Written to illustrate an engraving in the Bengal Annual of a mother surrounded by her children.

[ 135 ]



[The following Sketches were written for a Calcutta Periodical, and were intended as a kind of squib or satire to illustrate the violent prejudices of Politie cal parties against each other. I should be sorry to be thought to write in my own character in either of these sketches. Each article is to be regarded as the production of an hostile party.]


By a Whig. A Tory has no public virtue. He is selfish, mercenary and illiberal. He has no generous impulses, for they are inconsistent with his duty. He is like a man who has sold himself to the devil. His soul is not his own. He must watch the countenance of Power, and make his features obedient to the emotions of other men. He has no opinions. He “ thinks that he is thinking,” -when he is only acting as a bare recipient of the thoughts of others. In the late King's* time a Tory's countenance was the glass of Royalty. As his Majesty could turn to no side of his state apartments, without finding his figure fifty times repeated in the mirrored walls, so the Royal mind in all its different moods was reflected in the faces of his parasites. A Tory is of necessity a slave, for who but a slave could look upon a fellow-creature, however high his political position, with that utter prostration of spirit which is required in the worshipper of Princes. A King according to a Tory, can do no wrong. He is infallible in all things. It is blasphemy even to speak of a King's natural infirmities. Lord Castlereagh was shocked at the Examiner for denying that a Prince of 50 years of age was an Adonis ; and the Editor was cast into a jail for two years, as a slight punishment

George the Fourth.

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for his audacity. A true Tory would almost as soon question the purity of his Creator as of his King. Mr. Croly, a clergyman, thinks the character of the late King* immaculate, and has written a book to prove it. Tories would disinherit their children for the vices which are graceful in a King. George the Fourth who (when Prince Regent) was expelled from a Sporting Club for a mean and disgraceful imposition ; who was an adulterer, a gambler, a drunkard, and a cruel husband, has always been spoken of by the most puritanical Tories with a profound respect! Mr. Southey, in one of his Laureate Odes, was not ashamed to call upon the Princess Charlotte to follow in the foot-steps of her father! He could think of no purer model of propriety and morals !

“ Look to thy Sire, and in HIS STEADY WAY,

As in his Father's he, learn thou to tread." What amazes an honest man is the brazen-facedness with which people who most affect a moral squeamishness in other matters, will sing the praises of a regal reprobate and defend the worst crimes of a Tory Ministry. The writers in a Tory Periodical, who held up Shelley and others to the execration of mankind on account of their religious opinions, do not hesitate to defend every possible vice of which a Ruler may be guilty. There is an acrimony, an intolerance, an almost demoniacal ferocity in these champions of orthodoxy, which is in startling contrast to the character of the religion they profess. Nothing can be more violently opposed to the precepts and example of their divine Master, than the bitter and unrelenting spirit of their opposition to all those who have sufficient virtue and energy to say a good word or to strike a generous blow in the cause of freedom and mankind. Southey's attack on Byron and the detestable personalities of the Age and the John Bull may be referred to as exhibitions of genuine Toryism. Can such moral assassins, can such slavish

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* George the Fourth.


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