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Which far below receives the sevenfold stream.
Thence o'er the Ionic coast he strayed, nor passed
Miletus by, which once enraptured heard
The tongue of Thales, nor Priene's walls,
Where wisdom dwelt with Bias, nor the seat
Of Pittacus along the Lesbian shore.
Here too melodious numbers charmed his ears,
Which flowed from Orpheus, and Musæus old,
And thee, O father of immortal verse,
Mæonides, whose strains through every age
Time with his own eternal lip shall sing.
Back to his native Susa then he turned
His wandering steps.
9. A SEATONIAN PRIZE POEM, ON THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.
THY justice, heavenly King! and that great day,
When Virtue, long abandoned and forlorn,
Shall raise her pensive head; and Vice, that erst
Ranged unreproved and free, shall sink appalled;
I sing adventurous.-But what eye can pierce
The vast immeasurable realms of space,
O'er which Messiah drives his flaming car,
To that bright region, where enthroned he sits
First-born of heaven, to judge assembled worlds,
Clothed in celestial radiance! Can the Muse,
Her feeble wing all damp with earthly dew,
Soar to that bright empyreal, where around
Myriads of angels, God's perpetual choir,
Hymn hallelujahs, and in concert loud
Chant songs of triumph to their Maker's praise ?—
On that great day the solemn trump shall sound,
(That trump, which once in heaven, on man's revolt,
Convoked the astonished seraphs) at whose voice
The unpeopled graves shall pour forth all their dead.
Then shall the assembled nations of the earth
From every quarter at the judgment-seat
Unite; Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks,
Parthians; and they who dwell on Tiber's banks,
Names famed of old: or who of later age,
Chinese and Russian, Mexican and Turk,
Tenant the wide terrene; and they who pitch
Their tents on Niger's banks; or, where the sun
Pours on Golconda's spires his early light,
Drink Ganges' sacred stream. At once shall rise,
Whom distant ages to each other's sight
Had long denied: before the throne shall kneel
Some great progenitor, while at his side
Stand his descendants through a thousand lines.
Whate'er their nation, and whate'er their rank,
Heroes and patriarchs, slaves and sceptred kings,
With equal eye the God of All shall see,
And judge with equal love.-Where now the works
Of art, the toil of ages?-Where are now
The imperial cities, sepulchres and domes,
Trophies and pillars ?-Where is Egypt's boast,
Those lofty pyramids, which high in air
Reared their aspiring heads, to distant times
Of Memphian pride a lasting monument?—
Tell me where Athens raised her towers?-Where Thebes
Opened her hundred portals?-Tell me where
Stood sea-girt Albion ?-Where imperial Rome,
Propt by seven hills, sat like a sceptred queen,
And awed the tributary world to peace ?-
Show me the rampart which o'er many a hill,
Through many a valley, stretched its wide extent,
Raised by that mighty monarch to repel
The roving Tartar, when with insult rude
'Gainst Pekin's towers he bent the unerring bow.
But what is mimic Art? Even Nature's works,
Seas, meadows, pastures, the meandering streams,
And everlasting hills, shall be no more.
No more shall Teneriffe, cloud-piercing height!
O'erhang the Atlantic surge; nor that famed cliff,
Through which the Persian steered with many a sail,
Throw to the Lemnian isle its evening shade
O'er half the wide Ægæan.-Where are now
The Alps that confined with unnumbered realms,
And from the Black Sea to the Ocean stream
Stretched their extended arms?-Where's Ararat,
That hill on which the faithful patriarch's ark,
Which seven long months had voyaged o'er its top,
First rested, when the Earth, with all her sons,
As now by streaming cataracts of fire,
Was whelmed by mighty waters?-All at once
Are vanished and dissolved; no trace remains,
No mark of vain distinction: Heaven itself,
That azure vault, with all those radiant orbs,
Sinks in the universal ruin lost.-
No more shall planets round their central sun
Move in harmonious dance; no more the moon
Hang out her silver lamp; and those fixed stars,
Spangling the golden canopy of night,
Which oft the Tuscan with his optic glass
Called from their wondrous height, to read their names
And magnitude, some winged minister
Shall quench; and (surest sign that all on earth
Is lost) shall rend from heaven the mystic bow.
Such is that awful, that tremendous day,
Whose coming who shall tell? For as a thief
Unheard, unseen, it steals with silent pace
Through night's dark gloom.—
"Power Supreme !
"O everlasting King! to thee I kneel,
"To thee I lift my voice. With fervent heat
Melt, all ye elements! and thou, high heaven, "Shrink like a shrivelled scroll! But think, O Lord, "Think on the best, the noblest of thy works; "Think on thine own bright image! Think on Him "Who died to save us from thy righteous wrath; "And 'midst the wreck of worlds remember man!" DR GLYNN.
10. ON THE IMPORTANCE OF TIME TO MAN.
NIGHT, sable gōddess! from her ebon thrōne,
In rayless' majesty, now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world'.
Silence, how dead'! and darkness', how profound'!
Nor eye', nor listening ear`, an object finds;
Creation sleeps'. 'Tis as the general pulse
Of life stood still', and Nature made a pause',
An awful' pause! prophetic of her end`.
one'. We take no note' of time
To give it then a tongue'
As if an angel' spoke
The bell strikes
But from its loss'.
Is wise' in man.
I feel the solemn sound'. If heard aright',
It is the knell of my departed hours'.
Where are they? with the years beyond the flood'.
It is the signal' that demands despatch':
How much is to be done! my hopes and fears
Start up alarmed', and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-On what? a fathomless abyss'!
A dread eternity! How surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me',
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
How poor', how rich', how abject', how august',
How complicate', how wonderful', is man!
How passing' wonder HE', who made him such?
Who centred in our make', such strange extremes`?
From different natures marvellously mixt,
Connexion exquisite of distant worlds':
Distinguished link in being's endless chain'!
Midway from nothing to the Deity'!
A beam ethereal', sullied', and absorpt` !
Though sullied', and dishonoured', still divine'!
Dim miniature' of greatness absolute'!
An heir of glory'! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal'! insect infinite'!
A worm'! a god`!—I tremble' at myself,
And in myself am lost! at home a stranger',
Thought wanders up and down, surprised', aghast',
And wondering at her own': how reason reels'!
O what a miracle to man' is man',
Triumphantly distressed! what joy', what dread' !
Alternately transported', and alarmed'!
What can preserve' my life, or what destroy`?
An angel's' arm can't snatch' me from the grave;
Legions' of angels can't confine' me there.
WHERE the prime actors of the last year's scene,
Their port so proud, their buskin and their plume?
How many sleep who kept the world awake
With lustre and with noise! Has Death proclaimed
A truce, and hung his sated lance on high?
'Tis brandished still; nor shall the present year
Be more tenacious of her human leaf,
Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall.
But needless monuments to wake the thought:
Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality,
Though in a style more florid, full as plain
As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs.
What are our noblest ornaments but deaths
Turned flatterers of life, in paint or marble,
The well-stained canvass, or the featured stone?
Our fathers grace, or rather haunt, the scene:
Joy peoples her pavilion from the dead.
Professed diversions: cannot these escape?
Far from it: these present us with a shroud,
And talk of death like garlands o'er a grave.
As some bold plunderers for buried wealth,
We ransack tombs for pastime; from the dust
Call up the sleeping hero; bid him tread
The scene for our amusement: How like gods
We sit; and, wrapped in immortality,
Shed generous tears on wretches born to die;
Their fate deploring, to forget our own!
Where is the dust that has not been alive?
The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors:
From human mould we reap our daily bread.
The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes,
And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons.
O'er devastation we blind revels keep,
While buried towns support the dancer's heel.
Nor man alone; his breathing bust expires; His tomb is mortal: empires die. Where, now, The Roman, Greek? They stalk an empty name; Yet few regard them in this useful light, Though half our learning is their epitaph.When down thy vale, unlocked by midnight thought, That loves to wander in thy sunless realms,
O death, I stretched my view,-what visions rise!
What triumphs, toils imperial, arts divine,
In withered laurels glide before my sight!
What lengths of far-famed ages, bellowed high
With human agitation, roll along
In unsubstantial images of air !—
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause,
With penitential aspect as they pass,
All point at earth, and hiss at human pride,
The wisdom of the wise and prancings of the great.
12. ON THE BEING OF A GOD.
RETIRE ;—the world shut out ;-thy thoughts call home!
Imagination's airy wing repress;
Lock up thy senses ;-let no passion stir ;—
Wake all to Reason ;-let her reign alone;
Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth
Of Nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire,