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But most we mark the wonders of her reign, When Sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain, When sober Judgment has his throne resign'd, She smiles away the chaos of the mind; And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows, From Her each image springs, each colour flows. She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend! Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend, In that dread hour of night to Silence given, Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven.

When the blythe son of Savoy, roving round With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, From his green vale and shelter'd cabin hies, And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies; Tho' far below the forked lightnings play, And at his feet the thunder dies away, Oft, in the saddle rudely rock'd to sleep, While his mule browses on the dizzy steep, With Memory's aid he sits at home, and sees His children sport beneath their native trees, And bends, to hear their cherub-voices call, O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall.

But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell?
Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell?
Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain,
And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain?
Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies,
There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies!
He, whose arresting hand sublimely wrought
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought;
Who from the quarried mass, like Phidias drew,
Forms ever fair, creations ever new!

But, as he fondly snatch'd the wreath of Fame,
The spectre Poverty unnerv'd his frame.

Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore;
And Hope's soft energies were felt no more.
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art!17
From the rude stone what bright ideas start!
E'en now he claims the amaranthine wreath,
With scenes that glow, with images that breath!
'And whence these scenes, these images, declare;
Whence, but from Her who triumphs o'er despair?

Awake, arise! with grateful fervor fraught, Go, spring the mine of elevated thought.

He who, through Nature's various walk, surveys
The good and fair her faultless line pourtrays;
Whose mind, profan'd by no unhallow'd guest,
Culls from the croud the purest and the best;
May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime,
Or, musing, mount, where Science sits sublime,
Or wake the spirit of departed Time.

Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral muse,
A blooming Eden in his life reviews!

So richly cultur'd every native grace,

Its scanty limits he forgets to trace:
But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky,
Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh!
The weary waste, that lengthen'd as he ran,
Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span!

Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, By truth illumin'd, and by taste refin'd?

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When Age has quench'd the eye, and clos❜d the ear,
Still nerv'd for action in her native sphere,

Oft will she rise....with searching glance pursue
Some long-lov'd image vanish'd from her view;
Dart through the deep recesses of the past,
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast;

With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night,
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light.

So through the grove the impatient mother flies, Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries; Till the light leaves the truant boy disclose, Long on the wood-moss stretch'd in sweet repose.

Nor yet to pleasing objects are confin'd The silent feasts of the reflective mind. Danger and death a dread delight inspire; And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, When, richly bronz'd by many a summer's sun, He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done.

Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile; And ask the shatter'd hero whence his smile? Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich, go; And own what raptures from Reflection flow.

Hail, noble structures, imag'd in the wave! A nation's grateful tribute to the brave.

Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day,

When the hush'd grove has sung its parting lay; When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car,

Slowly ascends to meet the evening star;

Above, below, aerial murmurs swell,

From hanging wood, brown-heath, and bushy dell! A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, Stealing soft music on the ear of night.

So oft the finer movements of the soul,

That shun the sphere of pleasure's gay control,
In the still shades of calm seclusion rise,
And breathe their sweet seraphic harmonies!

Once, and domestic annals tell the time, (Preserv'd in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime) When Nature smil'd, and o'er the landscape threw Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue, A blythe and blooming Forester explor'd Those nobler scenes Salvator's soul ador'd; The rocky pass, half hung with shaggy wood, And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood.

High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose,20 And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows;

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