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 mind.

II. 2. Round their 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! I 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, 1 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?

* Æn. II. 172, &c. + The bull, Apis. # The Crocodile.

$ According to an ancient proverb, it was less difficult in Egypt to find a god than a man. The Hieroglyphics.

The Catacombs.

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 fits 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 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 !

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

† Æn. VI. 46, &c.

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.

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, l. 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.

Hear, with what heart-felt beat, the midnight bell Swings its slow summons thro' the hollow pile ! The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight-cell, To walk, with taper dim, the winding isle;

With choral chantings vainly to aspire Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire.

III. 3.
Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,

Hence with the rack and reeking wheel.
Faith lifts the soul above this little ball!

While gleams of glory open round,
And circling choirs of angels call,
Canst thou, with all thy terrors crowned,
Hope to obscure that latent spark,
Destined to shine when suns are dark?
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?