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Oh, what a palace rare håst thou created,
Almighty Architect, for man's delight! With sun, and moon, and stars illuminated;
Whose azure dome with pictured clouds is bright, Each painted by thy hand,-a glorious sight!
Whose halls are countless landscapes, variegated,
All carpeted with flowers; while all invite
Each sense of man to be with pleasure sated.
Fruits hang around us; music fills each beak;
The fields are perfumed; and to eyes that seek
For Nature's charms, what tears of joy will start.
So let me thank thee, God, not with the reek
Of sacrifice, but breathings pour'd apart,
And the blood-offering of a grateful heart.
TO A ROSE.
Thou new-born Rose, emerging from the dew,
Like Aphrodite, when the lovely bather
Blush'd from the sea, how fair thou art to view,
And fragrant to the smell! The Almighty Father
Implanted thee, that men of every hue,
Even a momentary joy might gather;
And shall he save one people, and pursue
Others to endless agony ? O rather
Let me believe in thee, thou holy Rose,
Who dost alike thy lips of love unclose,
Be thy abode by saint or savage trod. Thou art the priest whose sermons soothe our woes,
Preaching, with nature's tongue, from every sod,
Love to mankind, and confidence in God.
ON AN ANCIENT LANCE, HANGING IN AN
Once in the breezy coppice didst thou dance,
And nightingales amid thy foliage sang;
Form'd by man's cruel art into a lance,
Oft hast thou pierced, (the while the welkin rang
With trump and drum, shoutings and battle clang)
Some foeman's heart. Pride, pomp, and circumstance,
Have left thee, now, and thou dost silent hang, From age to age, in deep and dusty trance.
What is thy change to ours? These gazing eyes,
To earth reverting, may again arise
In dust, to settle on the self-same space;
Dust, which some offspring, yet unborn, who tries
To poise thy weight, mày with his hand efface,
And with his moulder'd eyes again replace.
LONE warbler! thy love-melting heart supplies
The liquid music-fall, that from thy bill
Gushes in such ecstatic rhapsodies,
Drowning night's ear.
Yet thine is but the skill
Of loftier love, that hung up in the skies
Those everlasting lamps, man's guide, until
Morning return, and bade fresh flowers arise,
Blooming by night, new fragrance to distil.
Why are these blessings lavish'd from above
On man, when his unconscious sense and sight
Are closed in sleep; but that the few who rove,
From want or woe, or travels urge by night,
May still have perfumes, music, flowers, and light:
So kind and watchful is celestial love!
"Tis sweet to sit beneath these walnut trees,
And pore upon the sun in splendour sinking, And think upon the wond'rous mysteries
Of this so lovely world, until, with thinking,
Thought is bewilder'd, and the spirit, shrinking
Into itself, no outward object sees,
Still, from its inward fount, new visions drinking,
Till the sense swims in dreamy reveries.
Awaking from this trance, with gentle start,
'Tis sweeter still to feel th' o'erflowing heart
Shoot its glad gushes to the thrilling cheek;
To feel as if the yearning soul would dart
Upwards to God, and by its futters speak
Homage, for which all language is too weak.
END OF VOL. I.