There once the steel-clad knight reclin'd, His sable plumage tempest-toss'd; And as the death-bell smote the wind, From towers long fled by human kind, Himself the hero cross'd! Father of many a forest deep! Whence many a navy thunder-fraught; Erst in their acorn-cells asleep, Soon destin'd o'er the world to sweep, Opening new spheres of thought. Wont in the night of woods to dwell, The holy druid saw thee rise; And, planting there the guardian-spell, Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell Of human sacrifice! Thy singed top and branches bare Now straggle in the evening sky; And the wan moon wheels round to glare On the long corse that quivers there Of him who came to die! WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 1786. WHILE thro' the broken pane the tempest sighs, And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smiles on me no more; With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave! OH! that the Chemist's magic art The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from CHLOE's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cell The spring of Sensibility! Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of Virtue shine; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine. Benign restorer of the soul! Who ever fly'st to bring relief, When first she feels the rude controul Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. |
