How bright the faggots in his little hall

Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictur'd wall!

How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, The kind fair friend, by Nature mark’d his own; And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,

Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,
Since Anna's empire o'er his heart began!

Since first he call'd her his before the holy man!

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, And light the wint'ry paradise of home; And let the half-uncurtain'd window hail Some way-worn man benighted in the vale! Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,

While fiery hosts in Heav'n's wide circle play,
And bathe in livid light the milky way,

Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour-
With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,
A generous tear of anguish, or a smile—
Thy woes, Arion! and thy simple tale,'

O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail!

Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true,
How gallant Albert, and his weary crew,

Heav'd all their guns, their foundering bark to save,
And toil❜d—and shriek'd—and perish'd on the wave!

Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep,

The seaman's cry was heard along the deep;

There, on his funeral waters, dark and wild,

The dying father blest his darling child!
Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence, he cried,
Spent on the pray'r his bursting heart, and died!

Or will they learn how generous worth sublimes
The robber Moor,` and pleads for all his crimes!
How
poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear,

His hand blood-stain'd, but ever ever dear!
Hung on the tortur'd bosom of her lord,
And wept, and pray'd perdition from his sword!
Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry
The strings of nature crack'd with agony!
He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd,

And burst the ties that bound him to the world!

Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel,

The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel

Turn to the gentler melodies that suit

Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute;

Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page,
From clime to clime descend, from age to age!

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood; There shall he pause, with horrent brow, to rate What millions died-that Cæsar might be great!

Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore; Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast,

The Swedish soldier sunk-and groan'd his last!

File after file, the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum! Horsemen and horse confess'd the bitter pang,

And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang!
Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose,

Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze,
The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye,

Thought of his home, and clos'd it with a sigh!
Imperial Pride look'd sullen on his plight,

And Charles beheld-nor shudder'd at the sight!

Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie,

And Hope attends, companion of the way,

Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day!