Is chance a guilt? that my disastrous heart, For mischief never meant; must ever smart? Can self-defence be sin?--Ah, plead no more! What though no purposed malice stained thee o'er? Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side, Thou hadst not been provoked--or thou hadst died. Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall! Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, To me! through Pity's eye condemned to see. Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; Grieved I forgive, and am grown cool too late. Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, What ripening virtues might have made their way? He might have lived till folly died in shame, Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. He might perhaps his country's friend have proved; Both happy, generous, candid, and beloved, He might have saved some worth, now doomed to fall; And I, perchance, in him, have murdered all. O fate of late repentance! always vain: Thy remedies but lull undying pain. Where shall my hope find rest?--No mother's care Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: No father's guardian hand my youth maintained, Called forth my virtues, or from vice restrained. Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm, First to advance, then screen from future harm? Am I returned from death to live in pain? Or would imperial Pity save in vain? Distrust it not--What blame can mercy find, Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind? Mother, miscalled, farewell--of soul severe, This sad reflection yet may force one tear: All I was wretched by to you I owed, Alone from strangers every comfort flowed! Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, And now adopted, who was doomed before; New-born, I may a nobler mother claim, But dare not whisper her immortal name; Supremely lovely, and serenely great! Majestic mother of a kneeling state! Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before Agreed--yet now with one consent adore! One contest yet remains in this desire, Who most shall give applause, where all admire. THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER. The Wartons were a poetical race. The father of Thomas and Joseph, names so intimately associated with English poetry, was himself a poet. He was of Magdalene College in Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and twice chosen poetry professor. He was born in 1687, and died in 1745. Besides the little American ode quoted below, we are tempted to give the following VERSES WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE.