Since Anna's empire o'er his heart began!
Since first he call'd her his before the holy man!

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome,
And light the wint'ry paradise of home!
And let the half-uncurtain'd window hail
Some way-worn man benighted in the vale!
Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,
As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,
While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide circle play,
And bathe in livid light the milky-way,

Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour-
With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,
A generous tear of anguish, or a smile-
Thy woes, Arion! and thy simple tale, (b)
O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail !
Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true,
How gallant Albert, and his weary crew,
Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save,
And toil'd-and shriek'd-and perish'd on the wave!

Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, The seamen's cry was heard along the deep; There on his funeral waters, dark and wild, The dying father blest his darling child! Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence, he cried, Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died!

How

Or will they learn how generous worth sublimes The robber Moor, (c) and pleads for all his crimes! poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear, His hand blood-stain'd, but ever, ever dear! Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord, And wept, and pray'd perdition from his sword! Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry The strings of nature crack'd with agony! He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd, And burst the ties that bound him to the world!

Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel

Turn to the gentler melodies that suit

Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute;

Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page,
From clime to clime descend, from age to age!

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood; There shall he pause, with horrent brow, to rate What millions died-that Cæsar might be great! (d) Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, (e) March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore, Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, The Swedish soldier sunk―and groan'd his last! File after file, the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum!

Horsemen and horse confess'd the bitter pang,
And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang!
Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose,
Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze,
The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye,
Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh;
Imperial pride look'd sullen on his plight,
And Charles beheld-nor shudder'd at the sight!

Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and sky, Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, And Hope attends, companion of the way, Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day! In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere, That gems the starry girdle of the year! In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, Pure from their God, created millions dwell, Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know; For, as Iona's Saint, a giant form, (ƒ) Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm, (When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, The vesper-clock tolls mournful to the wind,) Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore; So, when thy pure and renovated mind This perishable dust hath left behind, Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosom'd in the main;

Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,
And light and life in mingling torrent ran,
From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd,
The throne of God,-the centre of the world!

Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung
That suasive Hope hath but a Syren tongue!
True; she may sport with life's untutor❜d day,
Nor heed the solace of its last decay,

The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,
And part like Ajut-never to return! (g)

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage The griefs and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day; Yet o'er her lovely hopes that once were dear, The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, And weep their falsehood, though she love them still!

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled,
The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child!
Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy
Smiled on his sire, and fill'd his heart with joy!
My Absalom! (the voice of nature cried!)
Oh! that for thee thy father could have died!
For bloody was the deed and rashly done,
That slew my Absalom!—my son!-my son!

Unfading Hope; when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal dayThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin! And all the Phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!
Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun!
Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run,
From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

"T is Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb!