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But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey
The still sweet fall of Music far away;

And oft he lingers from his home a while

To watch the dying notes!....and start, and smile!
Let Winter come! Let polar spirits sweep
The dark'ning world, and tempest-troubled deep!
Though boundless snows the wither'd heath deform,
And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm;
Yet shall the smile of social love repay,
With mental light, the melancholy day!!

And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er,
The ice-chain'd waters slumb'ring on the shore,
How bright the faggots in his little hall

Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictur❜d wall!
How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone,
The kind fair friend, by Nature mark'd his own;
And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,

Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, when her

Since Anna's empire o'er his heart began!

Since first he call'd her his before the holy man!
Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome,
And light the wint'ry paradise of home;
And let the half-uncurtain'd window hail
Some way-worn man benighted in the vale!

Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,
As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,

While fiery hosts in Heav'n's wide circle play,
lund

And bathe in vid light the milky way,

Safe from the storm, the meteor and the shower,
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour....
With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,
A generous tear of anguish, or a smile....
Thy woes Arion! and thy simple tale, 2
O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail:

Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true,
How gallant Albert, and his weary crew,

Heav'd all their guns, their foundering bark to save,
And toil'd....and shriek'd....and perish'd on the wave!
Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep,
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep;
There on his funeral waters dark and wild,
The dying father blest his darling child!
Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence, he cried,
Spent on the pray'r his bursting heart and died!

Or will they learn how generous worth sublimes

3

The robber Moore, and pleads for all his crimes!

How poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear,

His hand blood-stain'd, but ever ever dear!

Hung on the tortur'd bosom of her lord,

And wept, and pray'd perdition from his sword!
Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry
The strings of nature crack'd with agony!
He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd,

And burst the ties that bound him to the world!

Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel, break

The shuddering thoughts, or wint them on the wheel.... Turn to the gentler melodies that suit

Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute;

Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page,
From clime to clime descend, from age to age!

5

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood; There shall he pause, with horrent brow, to rate What millions died....that Cæsar might be great! Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore, Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, The Swedish soldier sunk....and groan'd his last! File after file, the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum! Horsemen and horse confess'd the bitter pang, And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang!

Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose,
Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze,
The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye,
Thought of his home, and clos'd it with a sigh!
Imperial Pride look'd sullen on his plight,,
And Charles beheld....nor shudder'd at the sight!
Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky,
Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie,

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And Hope attends, companion of the way,
Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day!
In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere
That gems the starry girdle of the year;
In those unmeasur'd worlds she bids thee tell,
Pure from their God, created millions dwell,
Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below,
We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know;
For, as Iona's Saint, a giant form,6

Thron'd on her tow'rs, conversing with the storm, (When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwin'd,

The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind),
Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar,
From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore;
So, when thy pure and renovated mind

This perishable dust hath left behind,

Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,
Like distant isles embosom'd in the main;
Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,
And light and life in mingling torrent ran;
From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd,
The Throne of God,....the centre of the world!
Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung
That suasive Hope hath but a Syren tongue!
True; she may sport with life's untutor❜d day,
Nor heed the solace of its last decay,

The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,
And part like Ajut....never to return!7

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage
The griefs and passions of our greener age,
Though dull the close of life, and far away
Each flow'r that hail'd the dawning of the day;
Yet o'er her lovely hopes that once were dear,
The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,
With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,
And weep their falsehood, though she love them still!
Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconcil'd,
The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child!
Musing on days when yet the guiltless boy
Smil❜d on his sire, and fill'd his heart with joy!

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