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But whither do I wander? shall the muse, For golden baits, her simple theme refuse? Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets The fading scenes of childhood's far gone sweets, It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, And prattles on in desultory song. That song must close—the gloomy mists of night Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet, Steals on the welkin in primæval jet.

The song must close.—Once more my adverse lot Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot: Again compels to plunge in busy life, And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.

Scenes of my youth-ere my unwilling feet Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat, Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, Let me ejaculate, to feeling due, One long, one last affectionate adieu. Grant that, if ever Providence should please To give me an old age of peace and ease, Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days May wear away in gradual decays : And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play, Unseen upon the pinions of the day, Kind genii of my native fields benign, Who were . . . . . .




1. Ising the Cross!—Ye white-robed angel choirs,

Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, Ye who o’er holy David's varying wires [keep,

Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to
Oh, now descend ! and with your harpings

• deep, Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream

Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, Awakė my slumbering spirit from its dream, And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious



Mourn! Salem, mourn ! low lies thine humbled state,

[ground! Thy glittering fanes are leveld with the Fallen is thy pride !—Thine halls are desolate! Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly

sound, And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, · There breeds the wild fox lonely,—and aghast

Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste.

It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers

Lie crumbling in the dust ; for this forlorn Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn,

That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; And with most bitter persecuting ire,

Pursued his footsteps till the last day dawn Rose on his fortunes—and thou saw'st the fire That came to light the world, in one great flash



Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light,

To paint the agonies that Jesus bore! . Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might,

To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to . shore;

While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour, And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim!

May a frail mortal dare the theme explore ? May he to human ears his weak song frame? Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name.

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Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come!

Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, And give him eloquence who else were dumb,

And raise to feeling and to fire his note !

And thou, Urania ! who dost still devote Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine,

Whose mild eyes ’lumined what Isaiah wrote, Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine, And clothe him for the fight with energy divine.


When from the temple's lofty summit prone,

Satan, o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there, The Son of God confess'd in splendour shone:

Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air,
Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair,

Fled the stern king of Hell—and with the glare Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, [head. Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his


Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late

The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent His northering course, whileround, in duskystate, The assembling fiends their summon'd troops augment;

[went, Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they While, as they pass'd to regions more severe,

The Lapland sorcerer swell’d with loud lament The solitary gale; and, fill’d with fear, The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near.

Where the North Pole, in moody solitude
Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes

There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude,

Form a gigantic hall, where never sound · Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye .

(mound, Throne's him,-and, fix'd on his primæval Ruin, the giant, sits ; while stern Dismay Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert



In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair,

No sweet remain of life encheers the sight; The dancing heart's blood in an instant there Would freeze to marble.—Mingling day and night

[light) (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours Are there unknown; while in the summer skies The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly

height, Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies, And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise.

X. 'Twas there, yet shuddering from the burning lake,

Satan had fix'd their next consistory, When parting last he fondly hoped to shake

Messiah’s constancy,—and thus to free

The powers of darkness from the dread decree Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent

The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, Discern the colours clear of every dark event.

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