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WINTER IN COPENHAGEN. ERE yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds began through hazy skies to blow, At evening a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view . The face of nature in a rich disguise, And heightened every object to my eyes : For every shrub and every blade of grass, And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass; In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick sprung reeds, the wat’ry marshes yield, Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field, The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise, Sees chrystal branches on his forehead rise: The spreading oak, the beech, the tow'ring pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine. The frighted birds the rattliug branches shun, Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.. When if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, And in a spangled shower the prospect ends.
THE SACKING OF PRAGUE. Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceas'd awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceas'd with thee to smile, When leagu'd oppression pour'd to Northern wars Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce huzzars, Wav'd her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man!
Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
He said, and on the rampart heights array'd
Firm-paced, and slow, a horrid front they form,
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant sew!
The sun went down, nor ceas'd the carnage there,
Oh! Righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
Departed spirits of the mighty dead!
Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see
THE PILOT. ANGEL of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore. Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark, careering o'er unfathom'd fields; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor standard to the winds unfurl'd, Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world.
Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles
Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,
Treads the lov'd shore he sigh’d to leave behind;
Points to the master's eyes, where'er they roam, His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.
ON WOMAN. IN joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own? Who hath not paus’d, while beauty's pensive eye Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh? Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name?
There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow; There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd, In self-adoring pride securely mail'd;But, triumph not, ye peace-enamord few! Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture utter’i vows, and wept between; 'Tis yours, unmov'd, to sever and to meet; No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!
Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed,
Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bow'r! In vain the viewless seraph ling’ring there, At starry midnight charm’d the silent air; In vain the wild bird carol'd on the steep, To hail the sun, slow-wheeling from the deep; In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd; The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day, And still the stranger wist not where to stray, The world was sad the garden was a wild ! And man, the hermit, sigh’ltill Woman smild. THE SCEPTIC.
Oh! lives there, Heav'n! beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance, Content to feed, with pleasures unrefind, The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind; Who, mould ring earthward, reft of every trust, In joyless union wedded to the dust, Could all his parting energy dismiss, And call this barren world sufficient bliss? There live, alas! of Heav'n-directed mien, Of cultur'd soul, and sapient eye serene, Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day, Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay! Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower, Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower! A friendless slave, a child without a sire, Whose mortal life, and momentary fire, Lights to the grave his chance-created form, As ocean--wrecks illuminate the storm; And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, To Night and silence sink for ever more!
Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame? Is this your triumph-this your proud applause, Children of Truth, and champions of her cause? For this hath Science search’d, on weary wing, By shore and sea-each mute and living thing? Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep? Or round the cope her living chariot driv'n, And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of Heav'n? Oh! star-ey'd Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair? Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit! Ah me! the laurel'd wreath that murder rears, Blood-nurs'd, and water'd by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head. What is the bigots torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death, if Heav'n-ward Hope remain ! But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awak'd, inexorble pow'r! This frail and fev'rish being of an hour, Doom'd o’er the world's precarious scene to sweep, Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,