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Points to the master’s eyes, where’er they roam, His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.
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-enamor'd few Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you! For you no fancy consecrates the scene Where rapture utter'd 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, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, ! O! what were man?—a world without a sun'
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’d—till Woman smil’d.
Oh! lives there, Heav'n' beneath thy dread expanse, One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance, Content to feed, with pleasures unrefin'd, 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 might-shade round the sceptic head. What is the bigot's 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,
To know Delight but by her parting smile,
Cease every joy to glimmer on my mind, But leave—ohl leave the light of Hope behind }. though my winged hours of bliss have been, e angel-visits, few, and far between! Her musing mood shall every pang appease, And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please!
Eternal hope! when yonder spheres sublime
THE ROSE OF THE WILDERNESS.
At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all
Be hush'd, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns
THE LAST MAN.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The skeletons of nations were
Some had expired in fight—the brands
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
What though beneath thee man put forth
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Ev’n I am weary in yon skies