In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere In those unmeasur'd worlds, she bids thee tell, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know; For, as Iona's Saint, a giant form, f Thron'd on her tow'rs, conversing with the storm, (When o'er each runic altar, weed-entwin'd, The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind), Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar, From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore; So, when thy pure and renovated mind This perishable dust hath left behind, Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosom'd in the main; Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasive Hope hath but a Syren tongue! True; she may sport with life's untutor❜d day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay, The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage The griefs and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flow'r that hail'd the dawning of the day; Yet o'er her lovely hopes that once were dear, The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, And weep their falsehood, though she love them still! Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconcil❜d, Oh! that for thee thy father could have died! Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! K Heav'n to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes! Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun! Where Time's far-wand'ring tide has never run, From unfathom❜d shades, and viewless spheres, your A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 'Tis Heav'n's commanding trumpet, long and loud, Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud! Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb! |