Each potent spell thou bad'st him know.
By thee inspired, on India's sands,

Full in the sun the Bramin stands;

And, while the panting tigress hies

To quench her fever in the stream,
His spirit laughs in agonies,

Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam.
Mark who mounts the sacred pyre,

Blooming in her bridal vest:

*

She hurls the torch! she fans the fire!
To die is to be blest:

She clasps her lord to part no more,
And, sighing, sinks! but sinks to soar.
O'ershadowing Scotia's desert coast,

The Sisters sail in dusky state, t

And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,

Weave the airy web of Fate;

While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main,‡

Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral

train.

The funeral rite of the Hindoos.

The Fates of the Northern Mythology. See MALLET'S Antiquities.

An allusion to the Second Sight.

II. 1.

Thou spak'st, and lo! a new creation glowed.

Each unhewn mass of living stone

Was clad in horrors not its own,

And at its base the trembling nations bowed.
Giant Error, darkly grand,

Grasped the globe with iron hand.

Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light
Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height.
The statue, waking with immortal powers, *
Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the spheres
The indignant pyramid sublimely towers,

And braves the efforts of a host of years.

Sweet Music breathes her soul into the wind;

And bright-eyed Painting stamps the image of the minc

II. 2.

Round the rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise! A timbrelled anthem swells the gale,

And bids the God of Thunders hail;† With lowings loud the captive God replies.

Clouds of incense woo thy smile,
Scaly monarch of the Nile!*

But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee!†
Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea.
Proud land! what eye can trace thy mystic lore,
Locked up in characters as dark as night? ‡
What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore, §
To which the parted soul oft wings her flight;
Again to visit her cold cell of clay,

Charmed with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay?

II. 3.

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright ||
With purple ether's liquid light,

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,

The Crocodile.

what sounds my ear invade

+ According to an ancient proverb, it was less difficult in Egypt to find

a god than a man.

The Hieroglyphics.

The Catacombs.

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

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 controul;
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. 1.

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.

* Æn. VI. 46, &c.

Shivered by thy piercing glance,

Pointless falls the hero's lance.

Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,* And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string! At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er: While murky Night sails round on raven-wing, Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar; Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave below.

III. 2.

Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears!
The red-cross squadrons madly rage,†

And mow thro' infancy and age;

Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears.

Veiling from the eye of day,

Penance dreams her life away;

In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs,

While from each shrine still, small

responses rise.

See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29.

+ This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem in

the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, IV 2.