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Thou, to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown,
Who seest appallid th’ unreal scene,
While fancy lifis the veil between:
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thre disorder'd fly,
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant inould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws bim on the rigid steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep;
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind:
And those, the fiends, who near allied,
O’er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside;
While Vengeance, in the Jurid air,
Lifts her red arm expos'd and bare:
On whom that rav’ning brood of fate
Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?
Thou, who such weary lengths hast past,
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last?
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy rape and murder dwell?
Or in some hollow'd seat,
'Gainst which the big waves beat,
Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought!
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought!
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awakening bards have gold,
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice hallow'd eve abroad;
When ghosts, as cottage-niaids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men !
O thou whose spirit most possest
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast !
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel";
cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, o Fear! will dwell with thee.
Say, will no whité-robd son of light,
Swift darting from his heav'nly height,
Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
Hrre wave his amber locks; unfold
His pinions cloth'd with downy gold ; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?
And you; ye host of Saints, for ye have known Each dreary paih in life's perplexing maze,
Though now ye circle yon eternal throne, With harpings high of inexpressive praise,
Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of fate?
"Tis silence all. No Son of Light
Darts swiftly from his heav'oly beight:
No train of radiant Saints descend.
“ Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,
" If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind, " Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend.”
So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound
Burst from the cenire of her burning throne:
she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crownd: A bright Sun clasps her adamantine zone. So Truth prociains: her awful voice I hear: With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear,
Attend, ye sons of Men; attend and say,
Does not enough of my refulgent ray
Break through the veil of your mortality?
Say, does not reason in this form descry:
Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass
The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace!
Shall then your earth-born daughters vie
With me? Shall she, whose brightest eye
But emulates the diamond's blaze,
Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,
Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume,
Whose melling voice the warbling woodlark's lays,
Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form
Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,
Vie with these charms imperial? the poor worm
prove her contest vain. Life's litile day
and she is gone; while I appear Flush'd with the bloom of youth through Hear'n's eternal
Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung,
Ere first these erbs in éther hung,
I shone amid the heavenly throng;
These eyes beheld Creation's day,
This voice began the choral lay,
And taught Archangels their triumphant song..
Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth,
Sa:v infant Light with kindling lustre spread,
Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth,
And Ocean heave on its extended bed;
Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky,
The tawny lion slalk, the rapid eagle fly.
Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace,
Heay'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face,
And, as he rose, the high behest was given
« That I alone, of all the host of Heav'n, "Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth :" Thus the Almighty spake; he spake and calld me Truth.
PARENT of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O’er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snorty
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water you reside,
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
grassy dales between,
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear’d,
Nor'e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'da
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o’erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds ber nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest:
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while inethinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove ;.
Till suddenly awak'i, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown's
By the sweetly-soothing sound!
Me, Goddess, by the right hand leac,
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob’d Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each ev’ning meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks sleep hills among,
List’ning to the shepherd's song.
Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy, Can long my pensive mind employ: Hlaste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms and sigh! Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels and the house of wo, To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad night some Virgin comes,