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III.

GENIUS OF MILTON.

An irregular piece on the genius of Milton, in imitation of his sonnet to Shakspeare, beginning

"What needs my Shakspeare for his honored bones."

"His body was conveyed to St. Giles' Church by Cripplegate, where it lies interred in the chancel, but neither has nor wants a monument to perpetuate his memory."-Life of Milton.

WHAT need hath Milton of the sculptured stone

To tell where sleep "his honored bones?"

For them more fit,

Who dream away their idle life

In pleasure's sensual lap.

A monument more lasting his

Than all the pyramids of Egypt's kings!
Vain-glorious fools, who fondly thought
Their names to make immortal there,
With toil immense

Upraising heaps of senseless stones.
In every breathing line

A living spirit glows.

Immortal genius!

GENIUS OF MILTON.

Who scorns the scythe of "envious time-"'*
He rises on the rushing winds,

And courses from the arctic to the antarctic pole;
Then flies o'er "that chrystalline sphere "+

Whence motion springs:

Or on some planet's distant orb

Lighteth to view what beings habit there;

Now sails o'er seas of liquid pearl

That at the foot of Heaven roll!

Through Heaven's spacious courts he walketh now,

Then through the space

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Where "wild uproar" and "ancient night" do reign ;

* Vide an irregular piece, "written to be set on a clock-case."

"Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race,

Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;

And glut thyself with what thy womb devours.
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross ;

So little is our loss,

So little is thy gain," &c.-Milton's Works.

↑ A singular passage in Milton, alluding to the ancient astronomy.

"They pass the planets seven, and pass the fixed,
And that chrystalline sphere whose balance weighs
The trepidation talked, and that first moved;
And now St. Peter at Heaven's wicket seems
To wait them with his keys, and now at foot

Of Heaven's ascent they lift their feet," &c.

To the utmost bound of hell he flies,

Far o'er the burning lake, and ice-bound hills,

And mounteth like a seraph on the wind,

Once more to realms of purity and heavenly light, Rejoicing high in knowledge of God's wondrous works.

1820.

IV.

THE CHIEF IN THE BATTLE OF SHIELDS.

IN IMITATION OF OSSIAN.

He came from his hill in the land of streamy Morven the thunder of his shield echoed as he came, from a thousand lofty rocks above, around, and underneath. He strode swiftly onward in his might. He stood among his thousands, arrayed for the battle of shields, like some tall tree among the rough forests of the mountain. The bright armor of his lofty form shone like a wave of the ocean: the warrior is surrounded; but they fall before him. Again they enclose him round. Now louder sounds the clang of arms. The weapons gleam in the air countless as the hail-stones of the storm. He is lost in the gathering hosts. But see! again they sink; again his mighty

A VISIT BY NIGHT.

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arm reposes; he leans on his glittering spear. Thus have I seen a beaming star ascend from the peaks of Calmar. The clouds assemble; obscure is now that beaming star. Yet oft it breaks forth in darkening vapor, and walks in beauty. The whistling winds arise; through the deep vault of heaven they roar; swift fly the broken clouds; and smoothly now sails that glittering star through the blue ocean of heaven. Such is the course of the hero amid the gathering storms of war.

1821.

V.

A VISIT BY NIGHT.

ΕΙΣ ΕΡΩΤΑ.

ANACREON, ODE III.

PARAPHRASE IN THE FORM OF A BALLAD.

ONE blustering, cold and rainy night,
When all were sunk to sleep,

I heard a knocking at my gate

An infant seemed to weep.

Who's that, said, I disturbs my dreams

At this unwonted hour?

Who, in this dark and moonless night,
Is knocking at my door?

"Oh! rise and let me in," it cried,
"I am wetted to the skin;
I have no shelter from the storm;
Oh! rise and let me in!

I am a little, little child,

And know not where to go;
Have pity, then, upon my youth,
And some compassion show."
Moved by his artless tale of wo,
I rose and ope'd the door;
I lit my fire, and dried his hands,

And pressed them o'er and o'er.
Then, as this little boy grew warm,
He cried, with sportive glee,

"Here is my bow-let's see what harm The rain has done-let's see."

And then he drew that tiny bow,
And aimed his little arrow,

That pierced my liver through and through,
And cut me to the marrow.

Up then he jumped, and laughed ontright,
"Kind host," he cried, “no more
Suspect my bow, 'tis strong enough-
But thy poor heart is sore.”

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