She whom in joy, in grief you nursed; Who climbed and called you father first, On her you thought-but to be kind! Two kneeling at your feet behold; One-one how young;-nor yet the other old. Oh spurn them not-nor look so cold If Jacqueline be cast away, Her bridal be her dying day. -Well, well might she believe in you! He shook his aged locks of snow; And twice he turned, and rose to go. If tears and smiles at length together came? "That very look thy mother wore When she implored, and old Le Roc consented. True, I have done, as well as suffered wrong. Yet still I love him as my own! -Nor can'st thou, D'Arcy, feel resentment long; For D'Arcy's tears bedewed his hand; All things by all forgot, forgiven. And that dear Saint-may she once more descend To make our home a heaven! But now, in my hands, yours with hers unite. A father's blessing on your heads alight! Nor let the least be sent away. All hearts shall sing Adieu to sorrow!' St. Pierre has found his child to-day; Had Louis* then before the gate dismounted, Like Henry when he heard recounted† The generous deeds himself had done, *Louis the Fourteenth. Alluding to a popular story related of Henry the Fourth of France; similar to ours of "The King and Miller of Mansfield." (What time the miller's maid Colette Sung, while he supped, her chansonnette) Then when St. Pierre addressed his village-train, A joy by him unsought and unpossessed, To love, and to be loved again. ODE TO SUPERSTITION. WRITTEN IN 1785. I. 1. HENCE, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence! Thy chain of adamant can bind That little world, the human mind, And sink its noblest powers to impotence. Clot his shaggy mane with gore, With flashing fury bid his eyeballs shine; Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine! Thy touch, thy deadening touch, has steeled the breast, Whence, thro' her April shower, soft Pity smiled; Has closed the heart each godlike virtue blessed, To all the silent pleadings of his child.* At thy command he plants the dagger deep, At thy command exults, tho' Nature bids him weep! *The sacrifice of Iphigenia. I. 2. When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth,* Thou dartedst thy huge head from high, Night waved her banners o'er the sky, And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth. Rocking on the billowy air, Ha! what withering phantoms glare! As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell! The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by; In every grove is felt a heavier gloom, That veils its genius from the vulgar eye: The spirit of the water rides the storm, And, thro' the mist, reveals the terrors of his form. I. 3. O'er solid seas, where Winter reigns, And holds each mountain-wave in chains, The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer * Lucretius, I. 63. |