"Back, hurrying feelings! to the time I learnt to clothe my thoughts in rhyme! When, climbing up my father's knees, I gaily sang, secure to please! Rounded his pale and wasted cheek, And won him, in his turn, to speak: When, for reward, I closer prest, And whisper'd much, and much carest; With timorous eye, and head aside, Half ask'd, and laugh'd, and then denied; Ere I again petition made To hear the often-told crusade. How, knowing hardship but by name, Misled by friendship and by fame, His parents' wishes he disdain'd, With zeal, nor real quite, nor feign'd; And fought on many a famous spot;-- The suffering of a captive's lot; My Georgian mother's daring flight; The day's concealment, march by night; Her death, when, touching Christian ground, They deem'd repose and safety found: How, on his arm, by night and day, I, then a happy infant, lay, And taught him not to mourn, but pray. How, when, at length, he reach'd his home, His heart foretold a gentle doom; With tears of fondness in his eyes, Hoping to cause a glad surprize; Full of submission, pondering o'er What he too lightly priz'd before; The curse with tenfold vengeance fell.-- Those who had lov'd him once so well, In whose indulgence perfect trust Had still been wise, though most unjust, Were in the grave!--Their hearts were cold! His penitence might still be told-- Told to the winds! for few would hear, Or, hearing, deem that tale sincere His patrimony's lord denied, Who, hardening in possession's pride, Affirm'd the rightful owner died. "A victim from devouring strife, And slavery, return'd with life; Possessions, honours, parents gone, The very hand that urg'd him on, Now, by its stern repelling, tore The veil that former falsehood wore! "When he first bar'd his heart before thy view, Told all its inmost beatings--told them true; Nay, e'en the pulse, the secret, trembling thrill, On which the slightest touch alone would trill [Errata: kill]; While thou, with secret aim, collected art, Didst wind around that bold, confiding heart, And, in its warm and healthful breathings fling A subtle poison, and a deadly sting! "Where shall we else so fell a traitor find? The wilful, hard misleader of the blind And what can be the soul-perverter's meed, Plotting to lure his friend to such a deed, As made self-hatred on the conscience lay That heavy weight she never moves away? O! where the good man's inner barriers close 'Gainst the world's cruel judgments, and his foes Enfolding truth, and prayer, and soul's repose, Thine is a mournful numbness, or a din, For many strong accusers lurk within!