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No more shall nation against nation rise',
Nor ardent warriours meet with hateful eyes',
Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er',
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more';
But' .. useless lances into scythes shall bend',
And the broad falchion in a plough-share end'.
Then', palaces shall rise'; the joyful son'
Shall finish what his short-lived sire' .. begun';
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield',
And', the same hand that sowed', shall reap', the field'..
The swain', in barren deserts', with surprise'
Sees lilies spring', and sudden verdure rise';
Andb starts', amidst the thirsty wilds', to hear'
New falls of water', murmuring in his ear';
On rifted rocks', the dragon's late abodes',
The green reed trembles', and the bulrush nods'.
Waste sandy valleys', once perplexed with thorn',
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn':
To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed',
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed'.
The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead',
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead'.
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet',
And harmless serpents' .. lick the pilgrim's feet'.
The smiling infantin his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake',
Pleased', the green lustre of the scales survey',
And with their forky tongues shall innocently play'.
Rise', crowned with light', imperial Salem', rise!!
Exalt thy towery head', and lift thy eyes'!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn';
See future sons', and daughters yet unborn',
In crowding ranks', on every side', arise',
Demanding life', impatient for the skies'!
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend',
Walk in thy light', and in thy temple bend';
See thy bright altars', thronged with prostrate kings
And heaped with products of Sabean springs!!
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow',
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow'.
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display',
And break upon them in a flood of day!!

a Fål'shủn. bånd-not, und.

In'fânt--not, in'funt.

No môre the rising sun shall gild the môrn',
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn';
But lost', dissolved', in thy superiour rays',
One tide of glory', one unclouded blaze',
O'erflow thy courts': the Light himself shall shine'
Revealed', and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste', the skies in smoke decay',
Rocks fall to dust', and mountains melt away';
But fixed his word', his saving power remains';
Thy realm forever lasts', thy own Messiah reigns'!

SECTION XVII.
On receiving his Mother's Picture.-CoWPER.
O THAT those lips had language'! Life has passed'
With me but roughly since I heard thee last'.
Those lips are thine'—thy own sweet smile I see',
The same', that oft in childhood solaced me':
Voice only fails', else', how distinct they say',
“Grieve not', myb child', chase all thy fears away'!”
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes',
(Blest be the art that can immortalize';
The art that baffles Time's tyrannick claim'
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same'.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear',
O', welcome guest', though unexpected here'!
Who bidd'st me honour', with an artless song',
Affectionate', a Mother lost so long'.
I will obey', not willingly alone', .
But gladly, as the precept werec her own':
And while that face renews myb filial grief',
Fancy shall weave a charm for myb relief
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie',
A momentary dream', that thou art she'

My Mother! when I learned that thou wast dead',
Say', wast thou conscious of the tears I shed'?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son',
Wretch even then', life's journey just begun'?
Perhaps thou gav'st me', though unfelt', a kiss';
Perhaps a tear', if souls can weep in bliss' -
Ah', that maternal smile'! it answers'... Yes',

Hèrd. “MÉ. «Wêr.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day';
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away';
And', turning from my nursery window', drew'
A long', long sigh', and wept a last adieu!
But was it such'? It was. Where thou art gone',
Adieus and farewells area a sound unknown'.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore',
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!!
Thy maidens', grieved themselves at my concern',
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return'.
What ardently I wished', I long believed',
And', disappointed still', was still deceived'.
By expectation every day beguiled',
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child:
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went',
Till', all my stock of infant sorrow spent',
I learned', at last', submission to my lot',
But', though I less deplored thee', ne'erb forgot'.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor',
And where the gardener Robin', day by day',
Drew me to school along the publick way',
Delighted with my bauble coach', and wrapped'
In scarlet mantle warm', and velvet capped',
'Tis now become a history little known',
That once we called the pastoral house our own'.
Short-lived possession'! but the record fair"
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there',
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced'
A thousand other themes less deeply traced'.
Thy nightly visits to my chamberc made',
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid';
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home',
The biscuit, or confectionary plum';
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand', till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this', and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love', that knew no fall',
Ne'erb roughened by those cataracts and breaks'
That', humourd interposed', too often makes';
All this', still legible in memory's page',
And still to be so to my latest age',

aår. Nåre. Tshame'bür. Yu'můr.

Adds joy to duty', makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may';
Perhaps a frail memorial', but sincere',
Not scorned in heaven', though little noticed here!

Could time', his flight reversed', restore the hours',
When', playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers',
The violet', the pink', and jessamine',
I pricked them into paper with a pin',
(And thou wast happier than myself the while',
Would'st softly speak', and stroke my head', and smile',)
Could those few pleasant days again appear',
Might one wish bring them', would I wish them here'?
I would not trust my heart': the dear delight
Seems so to be desired', perhaps I might'-
But no-what here we call our life', is such',
So little to be loved', and thou so much',
That I should ill requite thee to constrain'
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again'.

Thou', as a gallant bark from Albion's coast', (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed',) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle', Where spices breathe', and brighter seasons smile', There sits quiescent on the floods', that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below', While airs impregnated with incense play' Around her', fanning light her streamers gay';So thou', with sails how swift'! hast reached the shore', “Where tempests never beat', nor billows roar';" And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide' Of life', long since', has anchored by thy side'. But me', scarce hoping to attain that resť, Always from port withheld', always distressed', Me howling blasts drive devious', tempest tossed', Sails ripped', seams opening wide', and compass lost', And', day by day', some current’ga thwarting force' Sets me more distant from a prosperous course'. Yet, О', the thought', that thou art safe', and he'!-That thought is joy', arrive what may to me'. My boast is not', that I deduce my birth' From loins enthroned', and rulers of the earth'; But higher far my proud pretensions rise', The son of parents passed into the skies'.

*Kůr'rėnts-not, kůr'runts. bPá'rénts.

And now', farewell'. Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course', yet what I wished', is done'.
By contemplation's help', not sought in vain',
I seem t have lived my childhood o'er again';a
To have renewed the joys that once were mine',
Without the sin of violating thine';
And', while the wings of fancy still are free',
And I can view this mimick show of thee',
Time has but half succeeded in his theft',
Thyself removed', thy power to soothe me', left'.

SECTION XVIII.
Man was made to Mourn.—BURNS.

A DIRGE. (The reader is desired to pay particular attention to the Rhetorical marks, and to the

words pronounced at the bottom of the pages.)
WHEN chill November's surly blast'

Made fields and forests bare',
One evening, as I wandered forth'

Along the banks of Ayr',
I spied a man whose aged step'

Seemed weary', worn with care';
His face was furrowed o'er with years',

And hoary was his hair'.
Young stranger', whither wand'rest thou?

Began the rev'rend sage';
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain',

Or youthful pleasure's rage'?
Or', haply', prest with cares and woes',

Too soon thou hast began't
To wander forth with me', to mourn'

The miseries of man.
The sun that overhangs yon moors',

Outspreading far and wide',
Where hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordling's pride' -
I've seen yon weary winter's sun'

Twice forty times return';
And every time has added proofs',

That man was made to môurn'.
O mân! while in thy early years',

How prodigal of time!!
Misspending all thy precious hours',

Thy glorious', youthful prime'.
.

•A-gen. "Be-gun.

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