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· Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme
With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
The lyre which I in early days have strung :
And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, On the dark cypress! and the strings which
rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are
heard no more.
And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more reanimate the lay? Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
One little space prolong my mournful day! One little lapse suspend thy last decree!
I am a youthful traveller in the way, . And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I
LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE
IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK.
Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold Your brilliant places in the sable vault Of night's dominions !—Planets, and central orbs Of other systems !—big as the burning sun Which lights this nether globe,—yet to our eye Small as the glowworm's lamp!—To you I raise My lowly orisons, while, all bewilderd, My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, The great Creator! Him! who now sublime, Wrapt in the solitary amplitude Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres Sits on his silent throne and meditates.
The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, “ The Lord our God is great," In varied harmonies.--The glorious sounds Roll o'er the air serene—The Æolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries,
Catch the full note, and cry, “ The Lord is great,"
Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,
Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys, The gauds, and honours of the world appear ! How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp Outwatch'd the slow-paced night ?-Why on the
page, The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd The hours devoted by the world to rest, And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay
The loss of health ? or can the hope of glory
Say, foolish one-can that unbodied fame,
LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER
AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS.
OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.
Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,
Spirit of her! My only love! O! now again arise, And let once more thine aëry accents fall Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swellOn the still air, the distant waterfall [ing Mingles its melody ;-and, high above, The pensive empress of the solemn night, Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll Dare now assemble at their mystic revels.