Three kingdoms longed to trust The sceptre in her hand, And send it down her race, While their white cliffs should stand. Each heart on tiptoe stood, To hail a new-born son, And merry bells were ready, To make the welcome known. Wail for the dead! The babe lies cold in death! Mother and offspring need But one sad funeral wreath. Stars sunk in ocean blue ’Merge from the eastern main; But England’s star of glory Shall never rise again. (_Several verses omitted._) CLIO. From _The Pocket Magazine_, Vol. III. Published by John Arliss, London. 1819. ――――:o:―――― SOLITUDE. _Supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk, a shipwrecked sailor, who lived four years in the uninhabited Island of Juan Fernandez._ I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. Oh, Solitude! where are the charms Which sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this desolate place. I am out of humanity’s reach, I must finish my journey alone,―― Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestowed upon man, Oh! had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth―― Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheered by the sallies of youth. Religion! what treasures untold Reside in that heavenly word, More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard; Never sighed at the sound of a knell, Never smiled when a Sabbath appeared. Ye winds! that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial, endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me; Oh! tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas, recollection at hand, Soon hurries me back to despair! But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There is mercy in every place, And mercy, (encouraging thought!) Gives every affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.