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Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears!
The red-cross squadrons madly rage, 18
And mow thro’infancy and age;
Then kiss the sacred duft and melt in tears.
Veiling from the eye of day,
Penance dreams her life away;
In cloister'd solitude she fits and fighs,
While from each shrine ftill, small responses rise.
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 ille;
With choral chantings vainly to aspire,
Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire.
To face Page 102
In cloisterd whituule she site righe, While
from each shrine still small responses rise ?
Published Mav 20,42793, by T. Cadell Strand.
ODE TO SUPERSTITION.
Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,
Faith lifts the soul above this little ball !
While gleams of glory open round,
And circling choirs of angels call,
Can'st thou, with all thy terrors crown'd,
Hope to obscure that latent spark,
Thy triumphs cease! thro' every land,
Her heav'nly form, with glowing hand,
Benignly points to piety and
Flush'd with youth, her looks impar
Each fine feeling as it flows;
Her voice the echo of her heart,
Pure as the mountain-snows;
Celeftial transports round her play,
And softly, sweetly die away.
She smiles! and where is now the cloud
That blacken’d 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.