III. 1. Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead! Pointless falls the hero's lance. Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,* Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string! III. 2. Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears! And mow thro' infancy and age; 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 aisle ; 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; Pure as the mountain-snows: She smiles! and where is now the cloud 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. YES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain; * After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795. Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, Is here no other actress, let me ask. Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, First, how her little breast with triumph swells, When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage, |