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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!




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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