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How sweet it is, when wearied with the jars
Of wrangling sects, each sour’d with bigot leaven,
To let the Spirit burst its prison bars
And soar into the deep repose of Heaven!
How sweet it is, when sick with strife and noise
Of the fell brood that owes to faction birth,
To turn to Nature's tranquillizing joys,
And taste the soothing harmonies of Earth!
But tho’ the lovely Earth, and Sea, and Air,
Be rich in joys that form a sumless sum,
Filld with Nepenthes that can banish care,
And wrap the senses in Elysium,
"Tis sweeter still from these delights to turn
Back to our kind-to watch the course of Man,
And for that blessed consummation yearn,
When Nature shall complete her noble plan ;
When hate, oppression, vice, and crime, shall cease,
When War's ensanguined banner shall be furl'd,
And to our moral system shall extend
The perfectness of the material world.—
Sweetest of all, when 'tis our happy fate
To drop some tribute, trifling tho' it prove,
On the thrice-hallow'd altar dedicate
To Man's improvement, truth, and social love.
Faith in our race's destined elevation,
And its incessant progress to the goal,
Tends, by exciting hope and emulation,
To realise th’ aspirings of the soul.
TO A LOG OF WOOD UPON THE FIRE.
WHEN Horace, as the snows descended
On Mount Soracte, recommended
That logs be doubled,
Until a blazing fire arose,
I wonder whether thoughts like those
Which in my noddle interpose,
His fancy troubled.
Poor Log! I cannot hear thee sigh,
And groan, and hiss, and see thee die,
To warm a Poet,
Without evincing thy success,
And as thou wanest less and less,
Inditing a farewell address
To let thee know it.
Peeping from earth—a bud unveil'd,
Some “bosky bourne or dingle hail'd
Thy natal hour;
While infant winds around thee blew,
And thou wert fed with silver dew,
And tender sun-beams oozing through
Thy leafy bower.
Earth-water-air-thy growth prepared ;
And if perchance some robin, scared
From neighbouring manor,
Perch'd on thy crest, it rock'd in air,
Making his ruddy feathers flare
In the sun's ray, as if they were
A fairy banner.
Or if some nightingale impress'd
Against thy branching top her breast
Heaving with passion,
And in the leafy nights of June,
Outpour’d her sorrows to the moon,
Thy trembling stem thou didst attune
To each vibration.
Thou grew'st a goodly tree, with shoots
So grappled under,
That thou whom perching birds could swing,
And zephyrs rock with lightest wing,
From thy firm trunk unmoved didst fling
Tempest and thunder.
Thine offspring leaves-death's annual prey,
Which Herod Winter tore away
From thy caressing,
In heaps, like graves, around thee blown,
As if in blessing