By thee to soft Taheite’s sultry clime, By thee to chill Kamschatzcha’s frozen zone, And Isles ne’er view’d till George’s golden time Britannia’s mighty name at length was known. O how unlike Magellan! he who bent His daring sail to untried winds, and first The world encompass’d—save in sad event Of timeless death by savage hands accurst. The Arts of Peace He cared not to extend; For gold th’ untravel’d sea his bark explored, For lust of gold he rashly strove to bend The free-born Indian to his lawless sword. Not such the generous purpose of thy will; With zeal untired and patient toil it strove To make th’ untutor’d savage learn thy skill, And the fierce-manner’d tribes embrace thy love. For this thy vessel plough’d the stormy wave, For this the pendent globe thrice circled round, When the rude hand of some unconscious slave With brutal fury dealt the fatal wound. Hold! hold, Barbarian! shall the guilty strife Provoke to mortal acts thy frantic hand? Let fall thy stroke on some less-valued life; But save, O! save the Chieftain of the band! E’en hostile kings bade spare his honour’d head, The bloodless trophies of his fame bade spare; And Peace and Science wide their influence spread To guard him from the wasteful rage of war: In vain—he falls—he dies—behold him bleed— Ah wretched Isle! ah murderous, murderous race! The guilt, the memory of this ruffian deed What pains can expiate, or what time efface? Henceforth no ship shall spread her canvas wing To visit that inhospitable strand; Save that in after times if chance shall bring Some bark storm driven near the hateful land; Ev’n then the hardy mariner shall mourn; And as he views it rising from the main, Far from the inhuman shore his prow shall turn, Cursing the murderous isle where Cook was slain. ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF DR. W. HAYES, PROFESSOR OF MUSIC IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. _Set to Music by his Son and Successor, P. Hayes._ SYMPHONY. These sounds of grief, this solemn air, To thee I sing, dear, honour’d shade! Hear, spirit of my father, hear! To thee these mournful rites are paid. _Here followed an Organ Movement, being a Psalm Tune of the Professor, Dr. Wm. Hayes._ Such the last strains by thee were tried, Strains that to holy Choirs belong; While Age, that wasted all beside, Yet spared the sweetness of thy song. So pass’d he: nor approved alone In science; like his gentle art, His life was Music, and in tone With Virtue’s harmony his heart. O! let thy tuneful Spirit, to hear The melancholy strains we raise, Now stoop from that celestial sphere Where Music is the voice of Praise! THE WORLD[16]. INTENDED AS AN APOLOGY FOR NOT WRITING. BY A LADY.