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While others, consecrate to higher aims,
Whose hallow'd bosoms glow with purer flames,
Love in their heart, persuasion in their tongue,
With words of peace shall charm the list'ning throng,
Draw the dread veil that wraps th' eternal throne,
And launch our souls into the bright unknown.
O THOU, the Nymph with placid eye !
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!
Receive my temperate vow :
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturh thy halcyon soul,
And smooth unalter'd brow,
Where in some pure and equal sky
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye
The modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye ;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning thro’ this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.
Their Health, thro’ whose calm bosom glide
The temperate joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow;
And patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet ;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, oh Nymph retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale ?
The lowliest children of the ground,
· Moss-rose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.
O say what soft propitious hour
I best may chuse to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffusé,
And shed thy milder day,
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid ;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.
THOU, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown,
Who seest appallid th' unreal scene,
While fancy lifts the veil between:
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly.
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold ?
Who stalks his round, an hiedious form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep :
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind :
And those, the fiends, who near allied,
O’er Nature's wound, and wrecks prêside ;
While Vengeance, in the lurid air,
Lifts her red arm, expos’d and bare :
On whom that ravening brood of fate,
Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait :
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?
Thou who such weary lengths hast past,
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last ?
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy rape and Murder dwell?
Or in some hollow'd seat,
Gainst which the big waves beat,
Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempest brought !
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought !
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have told,
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men !
O thou whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast;
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke !
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like
him to feel ; His cypress wreath my meed decree, And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee.
SAY, will no white-rob'd Son of Light,
Swift darting from his heav'nly height,
Here deign to take his hallow'd stand ; Here wave his amber locks; unfold
His pinions cloth'd with downy gold ; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand ?
And you, ye host of Saints, for ye have known Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,
Tho' now ye circle yon eternal throne,
With harpings high of inexpressive praise,
Will not your train descend in radiant state,
To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of Fate ?
Tis silence all. No Son of Light
Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height:
No train of radiant Saints descend.
“Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,
If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind,
« Or saint to hear, or Angel to defend."
So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound
Burst from the center of her burning throne :
she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd; A bright Sun clasps her adamantine zone.
So Truth proclaims ; her awful voice I hear : With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear.
“ Attend, ye sons of Men ; attend, and say,
Does not enough of my refulgent ray
Break thro' the veil of your mortality ?
Say, does not reason in this form descry
Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass
The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph’s glowing grace ?
Shall then your earth-born daughters vie
With me ? Shall she, whose brightest eye
But emulates the Diamond's blaze,
Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,
Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume,
Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,
Shall she be dem'd my rival ? Shall a form
Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,