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115

Sustaining all yon orbs and all their sons;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose
Myself in Him, in Light INEFFABLE!
Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise.

ON SOLITUDE.

Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky;

A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Then, calm’d to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hertford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born;
And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landskip swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the sage, and swain ; Plain Innocence in white array'd, Before thee lifts her fearless head; Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine:

About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell!
And in thy deep recesses dwell;
Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When meditation has her fill,
I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London's spiry turrets rise,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield-me in the woods again.

ON ÆOLUS'S HARP.

ÆTHERBAL' race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid,

With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,

Who died for love, these sweet complainings part.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred Bard *, who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung,

When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint; And to such sadly solemn notes are strung

Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,

Thro' heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise; Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire

To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd,

For till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.

• Jeremiah.

303

SONGS.

Tell me, thou soul of her I love,

Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled; To what delightful world above, Appointed for the happy dead?

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam,

And sometimes share thy lover's woe; Where, void of thee, his cheerless home

Can now, alas! no comfort know?

Oh! if thou hover’st round my walk,

While, under every well-known tree, I to thy fanci'd shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee:

Should then the weary eye of grief,

Beside some sympathetic stream, In slumber find a short relief,

Oh visit thou my soothing dream!

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