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III. 1.
Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead!
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare

Even whisper to the idle air ;
Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed.

Shivered by thy piercing glance,

Pointless falls the hero's lance. Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,* And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string ! At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er : While murky Night sails round on raven-wing, Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar;

Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow Where late she sate and scowledon the black wave below.

III. 2.
Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears!

The red-cross squadrons madly rage,t

And mow thro' infancy and age ;
Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears.

Veiling from the eye of day,

Penance dreams her life away; In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, While from each shrine still, small responses rise.

* See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29. + This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, IV. 2.

Hear, with what heart-felt beat, the midnight bell
Swings its slow summons thro’ the hollow pile !
The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight-cell,
To walk, with taper dim, the winding isle ;

With choral chantings vainly to aspire
Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire.

III. 3.

Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,

Hence with the rack and reeking wheel.
Faith lifts the soul above this little ball !

While gleams of glory open round,
And circling choirs of angels call,
Canst thou, with all thy terrors crowned,
Hope to obscure that latent spark,
Destined to shine when suns are dark ?
Thy triumphs cease! thro' every land,
Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease!

Her heavenly form, with glowing hand,
Benignly points to piety and peace.
Flushed with youth, her looks impart

Each fine feeling as it flows;
Her voice the echo of a heart

Pure as the mountain-snows :
Celestial transports round her play,
And softly, sweetly die away.
She smiles! and where is now the cloud
That blackened o'er thy baleful reign ?

Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud,

Shrinking from her glance in vain.

Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love.

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WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.

1793.

THERE, in that bed so closely curtained round,
Worn to a shade and wan with slow decay,
A father sleeps! Oh hushed be every sound !
Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away!

He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise ; Nor fly, till morning thro’ the shutter streams, And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies.

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The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah ! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight-view;
Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time.

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