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ODE TO SUPERSTITION.

97

And, wrapt in clouds, in tempefts toft,

Weave the airy web of fate;

While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main, 8

Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train.

II. 1.

Thou spak'st, and lo! a new creation glow'd.

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Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light

Saw proftrate worlds adore his golden height.

The statue, waking with immortal powers, 9

Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the spheres ;

The indignant pyramid sublimely towers,

And braves the efforts of a host of years.

Sweet Music breathes her soul into the wind;

And bright-ey'd Painting stamps the image of the mind.

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But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee? 12

Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea.

Proud land! what eye can trace thy myftic lore,

Lock'd

up

in characters as dark as night? 13

ODE TO SUPERSTITION.

99

What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore, 14

To which the parted foul oft wings her flight;

Again to visit her cold cell of clay,

Charm'd with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay?

II. 3•

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright 15

With purple ether's liquid light,
High o'er the world, the white-rob’d Magi gaze

On dazzling bursts of heav'nly fire;

Start at each blue, portentous blaze,

Each flame that fits with adverse spire.

But say, what sounds my ear invade 16

From Delphi's venerable shade ?

The temple rocks, the laurel waves!

« The God! the God!" the Sybil cries.

Her figure swells! she foams, she raves!

Her figure swells to more than mortal fize!

Streams of rapture roll along,

Silver notes ascend the skies:

Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song,

Oh catch it, ere it dies.

The Sybil speaks, the dream is o'er,

The holy harpings charm no more.

In vain the checks the God's controul;

His madding spirit fills her frame,

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.

ODE TO SUPERSTITION.

IOI

III.

1.

Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead!

Rites thy brown oaks would never dare

Ev'n whisper to the idle air ;

Rites that have chain'd old Ocean on his bed.

Shiver'd by thy piercing glance,

Pointless falls the hero's lance.

Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly, 17

And mars the laureate wreath of victory.

Hark, the bard's foul inspires the vocal string !

At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er :

While murky Night fails round on raven-wing,

Deepening the tempeft's howl, the torrent's roar ;

Chas’d by the morn from Snowdon's awful brow,

Where late she sat and scowl'd on the black wave below.

H

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