Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/266

 For her his wakeful eye to Heaven was turn'd; Nor deem'd it much that in her hour of woe, He, toil, and pain, and agony should know; And little reck'd he that her hour of strife Should claim the strength and glory of his life; But dream'd not once that she, for whom he rov'd, Would ever glance upon him, unapprov'd; Or through his panting side, with fury rude, Plunge the sharp point of dire ingratitude; Or turning from him with a demon's rage, Strew with fresh thorns, the journey of his age.

Yet O my country, slumb'ring on the steep, That beetles fiercely o'er the foaming deep, A voice is on the breeze; unseal thine eyes, The still, small voice of injur'd merit cries; Arouse thine ancient spirit, rush to save A suffering servant, e'er he seek his grave.

O man of sorrows! who wert wont to bear, Ev'n in thy youth the agony of care, Who like a rock in times of danger rose, Be greatly firm to bear thy weight of woes. Vet'ran, be firm! for on a threshold dread, Thy weary, unsupported foot does tread, The threshold of the grave; yet if no sin, No poison'd spring of action boil within, If on the arm of Deity thou trust, Mix, free from terror, with thy kindred dust. A day there is when thou shalt wake from sleep,