When front to front the banner'd hosts combine, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil; As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore.—" In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, "Twas his to mourn misfortune's rudest shock, Scourg'd by the winds, and cradled on the rock, To wake each joyless morn, and search again Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, Knows not a trace of Nature but the form; Yet, at thy call, the hardy Tar pursued, He found a warmer world, a milder clime, A home to rest, a shelter to defend, Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend!' C. Congenial Hope! thy passion-kindling power, How bright, how strong, in Youth's untroubled hour! On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. Go, Child of Heaven! (thy winged words proclaim) "Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame! Lo! Newton, Priest of Nature, shines afar, Scans the wide world, and numbers ev'ry star! Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye? Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound, The speed of light, the circling march of sound; With Franklin grasp the lightning's fiery wing, Or yield the lyre of Heav'n another string. с "The Swedish Sage admires, in yonder bow'rs," His winged insects, and his rosy flow'rs; Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train With sounding horn, and counts them on the plain— So once, at Heav'n's command, the wand'rers came To Eden's shade, and heard their various name. "Far from the world, in yon sequester'd clime, Slow pass The lov'd Athenian lifts to realms on high, Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage: Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man?' Turn, Child of Heav'n, thy rapture-lighten'd eye To Wisdom's walks, the sacred Nine are nigh: Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, Rang'd on their hill, Harmonia's daughters swell "Belov'd of Heav'n! the smiling Muse shall shed Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head; Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfin’d, |