MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ODE TO SUPERSTITION.1 HENCE to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence! That little world, the human mind, And sink its noblest powers to impotence. Clot his shaggy mane with gore, With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine; Thy touch, thy deadening touch, has steeled the breast, To all the silent pleadings of his child. 2 At thy command he plants the dagger deep, At thy command exults, though Nature bids him weep! When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth,3 Night waved her banners o'er the sky, And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth. Rocking on the billowy air, Ha! what withering phantoms glare! As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell' The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by; In every grove is felt a heavier gloom, That veils its genius from the vulgar eye: The spirit of the water rides the storm, And, through the mist, reveals the terrors of his form. I. 3. O'er solid seas, where Winter reigns, Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam. Blooming in her bridal vest: She hurls the torch! she fans the fire! She clasps her lord to part no more, And, sighing, sinks! but sinks to soar. The Sisters sail in dusky state, 5 And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost, Weave the airy web of Fate; While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main," Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train. II. 1. Thou spak'st, and, lo! a new creation glowed. Was clad in horrors not its own, And at its base the trembling nations bowed. Grasped the globe with iron hand. Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light And braves the efforts of a host of years. Sweet Music breathes her soul into the wind; And bright-eyed Painting stamps the image of the mind. II. 2. Round the rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise! And bids the God of Thunders hail; With lowings loud the captive god replies. 8 But, ah! what myriads claim the bended knee! 1o What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore,' To which the parted soul oft wings her flight; Again to visit her cold cell of clay, 12 Charmed with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay? II. 3. 13 On yon hoar summit, mildly bright Silver notes ascend the skies: Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song, The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er, And moulds the features of her soul, Breathing a prophetic flame. The cavern frowns; its hundred mouths unclose! And, in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows! |