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
The robber Moor, (c) 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
Theshuddering thoughts, or wind 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!
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!(d)
Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, (e)
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!
Horseman 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;

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, (f) a giant form,
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 cach 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!(g)

But yet, methinks, when wisdom shall assuage
The grief 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.
"My Absalom!" the voice of Nature cried,
"Oh, that for thee thy father could have died!
For bloody was the deed, and rashly done,
That slew my Absalom-my son !-my son!"
Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn,
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return,
Heav'n to thy charge resigns the awful hour!
Oh, then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day-
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,
"It is a dread and awful thing to die!"
Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun,
Where Time's far wand'ring tide has never run,
From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

'Tis Heav'n's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God,
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss.

Daughter of Faith! awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;
Melt and dispel, ye spectre doubts that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul

Fly, like the moon-ey'd herald of dismay,
Chas'd on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er-the pangs of nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of Heav'n, undazzl'd by the blaze,
On heav'nly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet notes of star-born melody:
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy tow'rs of Zion hill!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead!
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ?
Back to its heav'nly source thy being goes,
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ;
Doom'd on his airy path a while to burn,
And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return.
Hark! from the world's exploding centre driv'n,
With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,

On bick'ring wheels, and adamantine car;
From planet whirl'd to planet more remote,
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought;
But wheeling homeward, when his course is run,
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!
So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd

Her trembling wings, emerging from the world,
And o'er the path by mortal never trod,
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!

Oh, lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance,

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefin'd
The lukewarin passions of a lowly mind;

Who mould'ring earthward, 'reft of every trust,
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this barren world sufficient bliss ?
There live, alas! of Heaven-directed mien,
Of cultur'd soul, and sapient eye serene,

Who hail thee, man! the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay !
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower;
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire,
Lights to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;
And when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To night and silence sink for evermore !-

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame? Is this your triumph-this your proud applause, Children of Truth, and champions of her cause? For this hath Science search'd on weary wing, By shore and sea, each mute and living thing? Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep! Or round the cope her living chariot driv'n, And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of Heav'n? Oh! star-ey'd Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair? Then bid the palm thy sage's brow to suit, Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit! Ah me! the laurel'd wreath that Murder rears, Blood-nurs'd, and water'd by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head. What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? I smile on death, if Heav'n-ward Hope remain! But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awak'd, inexorable power, This frail and feverish being of an hour; Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, To know Delight but by her parting smile, And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while; Then melt, ye elements, that form'd in vain This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!