(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.[1])

  Once more to daily toil—once more to wear

  The weeds of infamy—from every joy

  The heart can feel excluded, I arise

  Worn out and faint with unremitting woe;

  And once again with wearied steps I trace

  The hollow-sounding shore. The swelling waves

  Gleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'er

  With many a splendid hue the breezy strand.

  Oh there was once a time when ELINOR

  Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye

  Undimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soul

  Felt thy mild radiance, and the rising day

  Waked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt verge

  Oft England! have my evening steps stole on,

  Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,

  And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge,

  And seen the upheaved billows bosomed rage

  Rush on the rock; and then my timid soul

  Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,

  And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.

  Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd.

  To tempt the perils of the boundless deep,

  An Outcast—unbeloved and unbewail'd.

  Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron hand

  Harrow my soul? why calls thy cruel power

  The fields of England to my exil'd eyes,

  The joys which once were mine? even now I see

  The lowly lovely dwelling! even now

  Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls

  And hear the fearless red-breasts chirp around

  To ask their morning meal:—for I was wont

  With friendly band to give their morning meal,

  Was wont to love their song, when lingering morn

  Streak'd o'er the chilly landskip the dim light,

  And thro' the open'd lattice hung my head

  To view the snow-drop's bud: and thence at eve

  When mildly fading sunk the summer sun,

  Oft have I loved to mark the rook's slow course

  And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought

  The church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughs

  Full foliaged, half conceal'd the house of God.

  There, my dead father! often have I heard

  Thy hallowed voice explain the wonderous works

  Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd

  Thy virtuous bosom, that thy shameless child

  So soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slave

  Of Vice and Infamy! the hireling prey

  Of brutal appetite! at length worn out

  With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt,

  Should dare dishonesty—yet dread to die!

    Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes,

  Where angry England sends her outcast sons—

  I hail your joyless shores! my weary bark

  Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea,

  Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene,

  The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood,

  And all the perils of a world unknown.

  For Elinor has nothing new to fear

  From fickle Fortune! all her rankling shafts

  Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease.

  Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death

  Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.

    Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods,

  Where the rude native rests his wearied frame

  Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm,

  As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky,

  Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek

  The dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plains

  Unbroken by the plough, undelv'd by hand

  Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds,

  And for the music of the bleating flocks,

  Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note

  Deepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes,

  The realm of Nature! for as yet unknown

  The crimes and comforts of luxurious life,

  Nature benignly gives to all enough,

  Denies to all a superfluity,

  What tho' the garb of infamy I wear,

  Tho' day by day along the echoing beach

  I cull the wave-worn shells, yet day by day

  I earn in honesty my frugal food,

  And lay me down at night to calm repose.

  No more condemn'd the mercenary tool

  Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart

  With Virtue's stiffled sigh, to fold my arms

  Round the rank felon, and for daily bread

  To hug contagion to my poison'd breast;

  On these wild shores Repentance' saviour hand

  Shall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its wounds

  And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.

[Footnote 1: The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting shells for the purpose of making lime.]

HUMPHREY and WILLIAM.

(Time, Noon.)