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And guide the wakeful Helms-man's
To Helice in northern sky;
And there

upon tbe rock inclin'd
With mighty visions fill'st the mind,
Such as bound in magic spell

Him* who grasp'd the gates of Hell,
And bursting Pluto's dark domain
Held to the day the Terrors of his reign,

Genius of Horror and romantic awe,

Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep,

Whose power can bid the rebel fuids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law;

Who shall now, sublimest spirit,
Who shall now thy wand inherit,
From him thy darling child who best
Thy shuddering images exprest?
Sullen of soul and stern and proud,
His gloomy spirit spurn'd the croud,

And now he lays his aching head
In the dark mansion of the silent dead.

Mighty Magician! long thy wand has lain

Buried beneath the unfathomable deep;

And oh for ever must its efforts sleep,
May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain?

Oh yes, 'tis his!--Thy other son!
He throws thy dark-wrought Tunic on,



Fuesslin waves thy wand, -again they rise,

Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep

Where round his head the volley'd light'nings flung,

And the loud winds that round his pillow rung Wooed the stern infant to the arms of sleep.

Or on the highest top of Teneriffe, Seated the fearless Boy, and bade him look

Where far below the weather-beaten skiff On the gulph bottom of the ocean strook. Thou mark’dst bim drink with ruthless ear

The death-sob, and disdaining rest,
Thou saw'st how danger fir’d his breast,
And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.

Then Superstition at thy call,
She bore the boy to Odin's Hall,
And set before his awe-struck sight
The savage feast and spectred fight;
And summon'd from his mountain tomb
The ghastly warrior son of gloom,
His fabled runic rhymnes to sing
While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing;
Thou shew'dst the trains the shepherd sees,
Laid on the stormy Hebrides,
Which on the mists of evening gleam
Or croud the foaming desart stream;
Lastly her storied hand she waves
And lays him in Florentian caves;
There inilder fables lovelier themes
Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams,

Thére pity's lute arrests his ear,
And draws the half reluctant tear;
And now at noon of night he roves
Along the embowering moonlight groves,
And as from many a cavern'd dell
The hollow wind is heard to swell,
He thinks some troubled spirit sighs,

the turf he lies,
Where sleeps the silent beam of night,
He sees below the gliding sprite,
And hears in Fancy's organs sound
Aërial music warbling round.

And as upon

Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole,
And breathes her polish o'er his soul;
Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat,
The wonderous work is now complete.

The Poet dreams:- -The shadow flies,
And fainting fast its image dies.
But lo! the Painter's magic force
Arrests the phantoms fleeting course;
It lives—It lives--the canvas glows,

And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.
The Bard beholds the work atchiev'd,

And as he sees the shadow rise,

Sublime before his wandering eyes, Starts at the image his own mind conceiv'd.



RETIRED, remote from human noise,

A humble Poet dwelt serene,
His lot was lowly, yet his joys

Were manifold I ween.
He laid him by the brawling brook
At eventide to ruminate,

He watched the swallow swimming round,

And inused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state, And pondered mucb, and paused on deeds of antient date.

II. i. “Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried,

“ There was a time, when genius claimed Respect from even towering pride,

Nor hung her head ashamed:
But now to wealth alone we bow,

The titled, and the rich alone,
Are honoured, while meek merit pines,

On penury's wretched couch reclines,
Unbeeded in his dying moan,
As overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown.

III. 1.
Yet was the muse not always seen
In poverty's dejected mien,

Not always did repining rue,

And misery her steps pursue,
Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced,
By the sweet honours of poetic bays,

When Sidney sung his melting song,

When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng,
And Lyttelton attuned to love his lays.
Those days are gone-alas, for ever gone!

No more our nobles love to grace
Their brows with anadems, by genius won,

But arrogantly deem the muse as base;
How differently thought the sires of this degenerate race!"

I. 2.

the minstrel :--still at eve
The upland's woody shades among
In broken measures did he grieve,

With solitary song.
And still his shame was aye the same,

Neglect had stung him to the core;
And he, with pensive joy did love
To seek the still congenial grove,

And muse on all his sorrows o'er,
And vow that he would join the abjured world no more.

II. 2.

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But human vows, how frail they be!

Fame brought Carlisle unto his view,
And all amaz'd, he thought to see

The Augustan age anew.

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