Page:The West Indies, and Other Poems.djvu/70
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Of power to bid the storm of passion roll,
Or touch with sweetest tenderness the soul.
He spake in vain;—til, with his latest breath,
He broke the spell of Africa in death.
Or touch with sweetest tenderness the soul.
He spake in vain;—til, with his latest breath,
He broke the spell of Africa in death.
The Muse to whom the lyre and lute belong,
Whose song of freedom is her noblest song,
The lyre with awful indignation swept,
O'er the sweet lute in silent sorrow wept,
—When Albion's crimes drew thunder from her tongue,
—When Afric's woes o'erwhelm'd her while she sung.
Lamented Cowper! in thy path I tread;
O! that on me were thy meek spirit shed!
The woes that wring my bosom once were thine;
Be all thy virtues, all thy genius mine!
Peace to thy soul! thy God thy portion be;
And in his presence may I rest with thee!
Whose song of freedom is her noblest song,
The lyre with awful indignation swept,
O'er the sweet lute in silent sorrow wept,
—When Albion's crimes drew thunder from her tongue,
—When Afric's woes o'erwhelm'd her while she sung.
Lamented Cowper! in thy path I tread;
O! that on me were thy meek spirit shed!
The woes that wring my bosom once were thine;
Be all thy virtues, all thy genius mine!
Peace to thy soul! thy God thy portion be;
And in his presence may I rest with thee!