Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But HOPE can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep: Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields, When front to front the banner'd hosts combine, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil; As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye, Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, And hears thy stormy music in the drum! And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore a In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, Know not a trace of Nature but the form; Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, Hyænas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore; Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime, He found a warmer world, a milder clime, Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend! b Congenial HOPE! thy passion-kindling power, How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour! On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. "Go, child of Heav'n! (thy winged words pro claim) 'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame! Lo! Newton, priest of nature, shines afar, Scans the wide world, and numbers ev'ry star! C "The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bowers, His winged insects, and his rosy flowers; d Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train With sounding horn, and counts them on the plainSo once, at Heav'n's command, the wand'rers came To Eden's shade, and heard their various name. "Far from the world, in yon sequester'd clime, Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime; Calm as the fields of Heav'n his sapient eye The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high, Admiring Plato, on his spotless page, Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage: 'Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man?' Turn, child of Heav'n, thy rapture-lighten'd eye To Wisdom's walks, the sacred Nine are nigh: Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, From streams that wander in eternal light, |