Spring up on freshen'd wing, ambrosial gales!
The favour'd good man, in his lonely walk,
Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks
Strange bliss which he shall recognise in heaven.
And such delights, such strange beatitude
Seize on my young anticipating heart
When that blest future rushes on my view!
For in his own and in his Father's might
The Saviour comes! While as the thousand
years*
Lead up their mystic dance, the desert shouts !
Old ocean claps his hands! The mighty dead
Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time,
With conscious zeal, had urg'd love's wondrous
plan,
Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump
The high groves of the renovated earth
*The Millennium:-in which I suppose that man will continue to enjoy the highest glory of which his human nature is capable ;-that all who, in past ages, have endeavoured to ameliorate the state of man, will rise and enjoy the fruits and flowers, the imperceptible seeds of which they had sown in their former life and that the wicked will, during the same period, be suffering the remedies adapted to their several bad habits. I suppose that this period will be followed by the passing away of this earth, and by our entering the state of pure intellect; when all creation shall rest from its labours.
Unbosom their glad echoes: inly hush'd,
Adoring Newton his serener eye
Raises to heaven: and he, of mortal kind
Wisest, he first who mark'd the ideal tribes
Up the fine fibres thro' the sentient brain
Pass in fine surges. Pressing on his steps,
Lo! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sage!
Him, full of years, from his lov'd native land,
Statesmen blood-stain'd, and priests idolatrous,
By dark lies mad'ning the blind multitude,
Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying, he retir'd,
And mus'd expectant on these promis'd years.
O years! the blest pre-eminence of saints!
Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright,
The wings that veil the adoring seraph's eyes,
What time he bends before the jasper throne †,
Reflect no lovelier hues! yet ye depart,
And all beyond is darkness! Heights most
strange,
Whence fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing.
For who of woman born may paint the hour,
When, seiz'd in his mid course, the sun shall
wane,
Rev., chap. iv., ver. 2, 3. "And immediately I was in the Spirit: and behold, a throne was set in heaven, and one sat on the throne. And he that sat was to look upon like a jasper and sardine stone, &c."
Making noon ghastly! Who of woman born May image, how the red-eyed fiend, outstretch'd*
Beneath the unsteady feet of nature groans,
In feverish slumbers-- destined then to wake,
When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name,
Destruction! when the sons of morning shout,
The angels shout, Destruction! How his arm
The last great Spirit lifting high in air,
Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One,
TIME IS NO MORE!
Believe thou†, O my soul,
Life is a vision shadowy of truth;
And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, Shapes of a dream! The veiling clouds retire, And lo! the throne of the redeeming God Wraps in one light earth, heaven, and deepest hell.
Contemplant spirits! ye that hover o'er,
With untir'd gaze, th' immeasurable fount,
Ebullient with creative Deity!
And ye, of plastic power, that interfns'd,
*The final destruction impersonated.
This paragraph is intelligible to those, who, like the author, believe and feel the sublime system of Berkley, and the doctrine of the final happiness of all men.
Roll thro' the grosser and material mass
In organising surge! Holies of God!
(And what if Monads of the infinite mind?)
I haply, journeying my immortal course,
Shall some time join your mystic choir! Tili
then,
I discipline my young noviciate thought,
In ministeries of heart-stirring song,
And aye, on meditation's heaven-ward wing
Soaring aloft, I breathe th' empyreal air
Of love, omnific, omnipresent love,
Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul
As the great sun, when he his influence
Sheds on the frost-bound waters-
the glad
Flows to the ray, and warbles as it flows.
BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.
ONCE more, sweet stream! with slow foot wand'ring near,
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escap'd the flashing of the noontide hours,
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
For not thro' pathless grove, with murmur rude,
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude:
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!
Pride of the vale! thy useful streams supply
The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
The elfin tribe, around thy friendly banks,
With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest,
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
|