She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend! O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall. But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell? Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell? Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain, And mould the coinage of the fevered brain? Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies, There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies! He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought Each bold conception in the sphere of thought; And round, in colors of the rainbow, threw But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of fame, Awake, arise! with grateful fervor fraught, Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. He, who, through Nature's various walk, surveys The good and fair her faultless line portrays; Whose mind, profaned by no unhallowed guest, Culls from the crowd the purest and the best; May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime, Or musing, mount where Science sits sublime, Or wake the Spirit of departed Time. Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, A blooming Eden in his life reviews! So rich the culture, though so small the space, But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky, The weary waste, that lengthened as he ran, Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, By truth illumined, and by taste refined? When age has quenched the eye, and closed the ear, Still nerved for action in her native sphere, Oft will she rise-with searching glance pursue Some long-loved image vanished from her view; Dart through the deep recesses of the past, O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast; With giant grasp fling back the folds of night, And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. So through the grove the impatient mother flies, Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries; Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, Long on the wood-moss stretched in sweet repose. Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. Danger and death a dread delight inspire; Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile, Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave! Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail! And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales pursued Each mountain-scene, majestically rude; To note the sweet simplicity of life, Far from the din of Folly's idle strife; Nor there awhile, with lifted eye, revered That modest stone which pious PEMBROKE reared; The silent sorrows of a parting hour; Still to the musing pilgrim points the place Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride, As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower So scenes of life, when present and confest, |