But man alone, the lord of every clime,

Whose port is godlike, and whose power sublime,
Man, at whose birth the' Almighty hand stood still,
Pleased with the last great effort of his will;
Man, man alone, no tenant of the wood,
Preys on his kind, and laps his brother's blood;
His fellow leads, where hidden pit-falls lie,
And drinks with ecstasy his dying sigh.

ODE TO MIDNIGHT.

Season of general rest, whose solemn still
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,
But speaks to philosophic souls delight,
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high,
My candle waning melancholy by,

I sit and taste the holy calm of night.

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame,
To her, while all around in sleep recline,
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,

And sing the gentle honours of her name; While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, To lift my soul her fairy vision sends,

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, And Superstition's gentle terrors come,

See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng! Meanwhile I tune to some romantic lay

My flageolet-and, as I pensive play,

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors Hears them aghast-(while still the dull owl pours

Her hollow screams each dreary pause between,)

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And 'mid the dreary solitude, serene,

Cast a much meaning glance upon the scene,

And raise my mournful eye to heaven, and weep.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.

I.

Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night,
A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild,
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light,

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled,
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,
Nocturnal Study's still retreat,

It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,

And through my lofty casement weaves,
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,
An intermingled beam.

II.

These feverish dews that on my temples hang,
This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame:
These the dread signs of many a secret pang,
These are the meed of him who pants for fame!
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul;
Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high;

My lamp expires;-Beneath thy mild control,
These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast
Soothe these discordant tones to rest,

And breathe the soul of peace;

Mild visitor, I feel thee here,
It is not pain that brings this tear,
For thou hast bid it cease.

Oh! many a year has pass'd away
Since I, beneath thy fairy ray,

Attuned my infant reed;

When wilt thou, Time, those days restore,
Those happy moments now no more—

When on the lake's damp marge I lay,

And mark'd the northern meteor's dance,
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there
To inspirate my trance.

Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign
Your magic sweets on me to shed;
In vain your powers are now essay'd
To chase superior pain.

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb ?
So swiftly pleasure flies;

So to mankind, in darkness lost,

The beam of ardour dies.

Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done,
And now, encurtain'd in the main,
Thou sinkest into rest;

But I, in vain, on thorny bed

Shall woo the god of soft repose

TO THE MOON.

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER.

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge

Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,

As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale
Seems to repeat the year's funeral dirge.
Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,
And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way,
Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,

With double joy my homage do I pay.
When clouds disguise the glories of the day,
And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray
Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,
And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring
The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.

MOONLIGHT IN EGYPT.

How beautiful upon the element

The Egyptian moonlight sleeps;

The Arab on the bank hath pitch'd his tent;

The light wave dances, sparkling o'er the deeps; The tall reeds whisper in the gale,

And o'er the distant tide moves slow the silent sail.

Thou mighty Nile! and thou receding main,

How peacefully ye rest upon your shores,

Tainted no more, as when from Cairo's towers, Roll'd the swoln corse by plague! the monster! slain. Far as the eye can see around,

Upon the solitude of waters wide,

There is no sight, save of the restless tideSave of the winds, and waves, there is no sound.

Egyptia sleeps, her sons in silence sleep!

Ill-fated land, upon thy rest they come-
The' invader, and his host. Behold the deep
Bears on her farthest verge the dusky gloom-

And now they rise, the masted forests rise,

And gallant, through the foam, their way they make.
Stern Genius of the Memphian shores, awake-
The foeman in thy inmost harbour lies,
And ruin o'er thy land with brooding pennon flies

TO THE MORNING.

Written during illness.

Beams of the day-break faint! I hail
Your dubious hues, as on the robe

Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,
I mark your traces pale.

Tired with the taper's sickly light,
And with the wearying, number'd night,
I hail the streaks of morn divine:

And lo! they break between the dewy wreaths
That round my rural casement twine:
The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes;
It fans my feverish brow,-it calms the mental strife,
And cheerily re-illumes the lambient flame of life.

The lark has her gay song begun,

She leaves her grassy nest,
And soars till the unrisen sun

Gleams on her speckled breast.

Now let me leave my restless bed,
And o'er the spangled uplands tread;

Now through the custom'd wood-walk wend;
By many a green lane lies my way,

Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, Till on the mountain's summit gray,

I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.