The walls around told all the pencil's power; There proud creations of each mighty hand Shone with their hues and lines as in the hour, When the last touch was given at the command Of the same genius that at first had plann'd, Exulting in its great and glowing thought: Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land, Of love and glory, to new life were wrought, From history, from fable, and from nature brought.

With these were others all divine, drawn all
From ground where oft, with signs and accents
The lonely prophet doom'd to sudden fall [dread,
Proud kings and cities, and with gentle tread
Bore life's quick triumph to the humble dead,
And where strong angels flew to blast or save,
Where martyr'd hosts of old, and youthful bled,
And where their mighty Lord o'er land and wave
Spread life and peace till death, then spread them
through the grave.

From these fix'd visions of the hallow'd eye,
Some kindling gleams of their ethereal glow,
Would ofttimes fall, as from the opening sky,
On eyes delighted, glancing to and fro,
Or fasten'd till their orbs dilated grow;
Then would the proudest seem with joy to learn
Truths they had feared or felt ashamed to know;
The skeptic would believe, the lost return;

And all the cold and low would seem to rise and burn.

Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast,

The beautiful, impassion'd, and refined; And in the deep enchantment o'er them cast, They look'd from earth, and soar'd above their To the bless'd calm of an abstracted mind, [kind And its communion with things all its own, Its forms sublime and lovely; as the blind, Mid earthly scenes, forgotten, or unknown, Live in ideal worlds, and wander there alone.

Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell
With all whom that Enchantress held subdued,
As in the holiest circle of her spell,

Where meaner spirits never dare intrude,
They dwelt in calm and silent solitude,
Rapt in the love of all the high and sweet,
In thought, and art, and nature, and imbued
With its devotion to life's inmost seat,

As drawn from all the charms which in that valley meet.

ROSSEAU AND COWPER.

ROSSEAU Could weep-yes, with a heart of stone
The impious sophist could recline beside
The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone
On all its loveliness at even tide :

On its small running waves in purple dyed
Beneath bright clouds or all the glowing sky,
On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide,
And on surrounding mountains wild and high,
Till tears unbidden gush'd from his enchanted eye.

But his were not the tears of feeling fine
Of grief or love; at fancy's flash they flow'd,
Like burning drops from some proud lonely pine
By lightning fired; his heart with passion glow'd
Till it consumed his life, and yet he show'd
A chilling coldness both to friend and foe,
As Etna, with its centre an abode

Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow
Of all its desert brow the living world below.

Was he but justly wretched from his crimes?
Then why was Cowper's anguish oft as keen,
With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes
Genius and feeling, and to things unseen

Lifts the pure heart through clouds that roll be

tween

The earth and skies, to darken human hope?
Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene
To render vain faith's lifted telescope,

And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope?

He too could give himself to musing deep, By the calm lake at evening he could stand, Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep On all its breast by not an insect fanned, And hear low voices on the far-off strand, Or through the still and dewy atmosphere The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand, From fronting shore and woody island near In echoes quick return'd more mellow and more clear.

And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams,
In the pine grove, when low the full moon fair
Shot under lofty tops her level beams,

Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare,
In stripes drawn parallel with order rare,
As of some temple vast or colonnade,

While on green turf made smooth without his care He wander'd o'er its stripes of light and shade, And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade.

'Twas thus in nature's bloom and solitude

He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; 'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower.

THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY.

AND thou to whom long worshipp'd nature lends No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends,

Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate;
None seek thy misery, none thy being hate;
Break from thy former self, thy life begin;
Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate,
And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within,
And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win.

With deeds of virtue to embalm his name,
He dies in triumph or serene delight;
Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame
At every breath, but in immortal might
His spirit grows, preparing for its flight:

The world recedes and fades like clouds of even, But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more bright,

All intervening mists far off are driven;

The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven.

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold: 'Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not, when all unrolled, Leaf after leaf its bosom rich and fair Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient

[air.

Wake thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night

When death is waiting for thy number'd hours
To take their swift and everlasting flight;

Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd; Do something-do it soon-with all thy might; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself inactive were no longer bless'd.

Some high or humble enterprise of good
Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind,
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined;
Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind
To this thy purpose—to begin, pursue,

With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind, Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

BURNS.

To a rose, brought from near Alloway Kirk, in Ayreshire, in the autumn of 1822.

WILD ROSE of Alloway! my thanks :
Thou 'mindst me of that autumn noon
When first we met upon "the banks
And braes o' bonny Doon."

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief,
We've cross'd the winter sea, and thou
Art wither'd-flower and leaf.

And will not thy death-doom be mine-
The doom of all things wrought of clay-
And wither'd my life's leaf like thine,
Wild rose of Alloway?