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That night, transported, with a sigh I said “ 'Tis all a dream!"—Now, like a dream, 'tis fled; And many and many a year has passed away, And I alone remain to watch and pray! Yet oft in darkness, on my bed of straw, Oft I awake and think on what I saw! The groves, the birds, the youths, the nymphs recall, And Cora, loveliest, sweetest of them all!

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A fision.

Still would I speak of Him before I went,
Who among us a life of sorrow spent,
And, dying, left a world his monument;
Still, if the time allowed! My Hour draws near;
But He will prompt me when I faint with fear.

· Alas, He hears me not! He cannot hear!

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Twice the Moon filled her silver urn with light.
Then from the Throne an Angel winged his flight;
He, who unfixed the compass, and assigned
O'er the wild waves a pathway to the wind;
Who, while approached by none but Spirits pure,
Wrought, in his progress thro' the dread obscure,
Signs like the ethereal bow—that shall endure !

As he descended thro' the upper air,
Day broke on day as God Himself were there!
Before the great Discoverer, laid to rest,
He stood, and thus his secret soul addressed.

“ The wind recalls thee; its still voice obey.
Millions await thy coming; hence, away.
To thee blest tidings of great joy consigned,
Another Nature, and a new Mankind !
The vain to dream, the wise to doubt shall cease;
Young men be glad, and old depart in peace!
Hence! tho' assembling in the fields of air,
Now, in a night of clouds, thy Foes prepare
To rock the globe with elemental wars,
And dash the floods of ocean to the stars;
To bid the meek repine, the valiant weep,
And Thee restore thy Secret to the Deep!

« Not then to leave Thee! to their vengeance cast, Thy heart their aliment, their dire repast! +

To other eyes shall Mexico unfold
Her feathered tapestries, and roofs of gold.
To other eyes, from distant cliff descried,
Shall the Pacific roll his ample tide;
There destined soon rich argosies to ride.
Chains thy reward! beyond the ATLANTIC wave
Hung in thy chamber, buried in thy grave!
Thy reverend form to time and grief a prey,
A phantom wandering in the light of day!

“What tho' thy grey hairs to the dust descend, Their scent shall track thee, track thee to the end ; #

P. Martyr, Epist. 133. 152. + See the Eumenides of Æschylus, v. 305, &c. | Ibid. v. 246.

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