High o'er the world, the white-robed Magi gaze
On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire;
Start at each blue, portentous blaze,
Each flame that flits with adverse spire.
But say, what sounds my ear invade
From Delphi's venerable shade?
The temple rocks, the laurel waves!
"The God! the God!" the Sibyl cries."
Her figure swells! she foams, she raves!
Her figure swells to more than mortal size!
Streams of rapture roll along,

Silver notes ascend the skies:
Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song,
Oh catch it, ere it dies!

The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er,

The holy harpings charm no more.

In vain she checks the God's control;

His madding spirit fills her frame,

And moulds the features of her soul,
Breathing a prophetic flame.

The cavern frowns; its hundred mouths unclose;
And, in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows!

III. I.

Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead!

Rites thy brown oaks would never dare

Even whisper to the idle air;

Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed.

Shivered by thy piercing glance,

Pointless falls the hero's lance.

1 "The Persians," says Herodotus, "have no temples, altars, or statues. They sacrifice on the tops of the highest mountains." (i. 131.)

En. vi. 46, &c.

aze

Thy triumphs cease! thro' every land,
Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease!
Her heavenly form, with glowing hand,
Benignly points to piety and peace.
Flushed with youth, her looks impart

Each fine feeling as it flows;
Her voice the echo of a heart

Pure as the mountain-snows:
Celestial transports round her play,
And softly, sweetly die away.

She smiles! and where is now the cloud

That blackened o'er thy baleful reign?
Grim Darkness furls his leaden shroud,

Shrinking from her glance in vain.

Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love.

ove,

ove.