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Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed-
Disperse it as now light dispels the dark.
ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.—Byron.
Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling place,
With one fair Spirit for iny minister,
That I might all forget the human race,'
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye Eleinents !-in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted-Can ye not
Accord me such a being ? Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot?
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar :
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore ;-upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him—thou dost arise
And shake hiin from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And bowling to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
Then dashest him again to earth : there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war!'
These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts :—not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
(Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving,)-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity—the throne
Of the lovisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Or youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here.
THE THUNDER STORM.—Montgomery.
Oh for evening's brownest shade;
Where the breezes play by stealth,
In the forest cinctured glade,
Round the hermitage of health
While the noon-bright mountains blaze,
In the Sun's tormenting rays:
O’er the sick and sultry plains,
Through the dim delirious air,
Agonizing silence reigns;
And the wapness of despair.
Nature faints with fervent heat;
Ah! her pulse has ceased to beat.
Now in deep and dreadful gloom,
Clouds on clouds portentous spread ;
Black as if the day of doom
Hung on nature's shrinking head.
Lo! the lightning breaks from high ;
God is coming! God is nigh!
Hear ye not his chariot wheels,
As the mighty thunder rolls ?
Nature, startled nature, reels
From the centre to the poles.
Tremble ocean, earth, and sky,
Tremble! God is passing by!
Darkness, wild with horror, forms
His mysterious hiding-place;
Should he from his ark of storms
Rend the veil, and show his face, At the judgment of his eye All the universe would die. Brighter, broader lightnings flash,
Hail and rain tempestuous fall,
Louder, deeper thunders crash,
Desolation threatens all.
Struggling nature gasps for breath
In the agony of death.
God of Vengeance! from above
While thine awful bolts are hurled, Oh! remember thou art love:
Spare, oh spare a guilty world. Stay thy flaming wrath awhile ; See thy bow of promise smile. Welcome in the eastern cloud
Messenger of Mercy still; Now, ye winds, proclaim aloud,
Peace on earth, to man, good will ! Nature, God's repenting child, See thy parent reconciled! Hark! the nightingale, afar,
Sweetly sings the sun to rest;
And awakes the evening star
In the rosy tinted west;
While the moon's enchanting eye
Opens Paradise on high !
Clear and tranquil is the night,
Nature's sore afflictions cease;
And the storm that spent its might
Has a covenant of peace. Vengeance drops her harmless rod, Mercy is the power of God!
ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. And thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes' streets, three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.
Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy,
Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tone; Thou’rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us—for doubtless thou canst recollect,
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame?
Was Cheops or Cepbrenes architect
Of either Pyramid that bears his name !
Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates as sung by Homer?
Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade;
Then say, what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a priest—if so, my struggles Are vain,-Egyptian priests ne'er owned their juggles. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobb’d with Pharaoh glass to glass;
Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat,
Or doff'd thine own, to let Queen Dido pass.
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch, at the great Temple's dedication.
I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Hast any Roman soldier mauld and knuckled,
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed,