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Should Heaven's fair harbinger delight to pour
Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour,
No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page,
No fears but such as fancy can assuage;
Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss,
The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss,
(For love pursues an ever devious race,
True to the winding lineaments of grace;)
Yet still may Hope her talisman employ
To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy,
And all her kindred energies impart
That burn the brightest in the purest heart!

When first the Rhodian's mimic art arrayed

queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, The happy master mingled on his piece Each look that charmed him in the fair of Greece! Tó faultless Nature true, he stole a grace From every finer form and sweeter face! And, as he sojourned on the Ægean isles, Wooed all their love, and treasured all their smiles ! Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined, And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combined Love on the picture smiled! Expression poured Her mingling spirit there—and Greece adored ! So thy fair hand, enamoured Fancy! gleans The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ; Thy pencil traces on the Lover's thought Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, Where Love and Lore may claim alternate hours, With Peace embosomed in Idalian bow'rs ; Remote from busy life's bewildered way, O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway; Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, With hermit steps to wander and adore;

There shall he love, when genial morn appears,
Like pensive beauty smiling in her tears,
To watch the brightning roses of the sky,
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye!
And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep,
The woods, and waves, and murm’ring winds asleep;
When fairy harps th' Hesperian planets hail,
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,
His path shall be where streamy mountains swell
Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell,
Where mouldering piles and forests intervene,
Mingling with darker tints the living green!
No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,
Heaven, earth, and ocean, blazing all around!

The moon is up—the watch-tower dimly burnsAnd down the vale his sober step returns ; But pauses oft as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of Music far away! And oft he lingers from his home awhile To watch the dying notes !—and start, and smile!

Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm! Yet shall the smile of social love repay, With mental light, the melancholy day! And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the faggots in his little hall Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!

How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, The kind fair friend, by nature marked 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 called 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-uncurtained 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 Heaven's wide circle play, And bathe in livid light the milky-way, Sase from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, Some' pleasing page shall charm the solemn hourWith pathos shall command, with wit beguile, A generous tear of anguish, or a smile'Thy woes, Arion ! and thy simple tale, (6) O’er all the heart shall triumph and prevail ! Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true, How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, And toiled-and shrieked—and perished on the wave!

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Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep,
The seamen'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 prayer his bursting heart, and died!

Ce: will they learn how generous worth sublimes The robber Moor, (c) and pleads for all his crimes ! How poor Amelia kissed with many a tear, His hand blood-stained, but ever ever dear!

Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord,
And wept, and prayed perdition from his sword !
Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry
The strings of nature cracked with agony!
He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled,
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!.(d) Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, (e) Marched by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore; Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, The Swedish soldier sunk—and groaned his last ! File aster'file, the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum! Horsemen and horse confessed 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 turned his eye, Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh! Imperial pride looked sullen on his plight, And Charles beheld—nor shuddered at the sight!.

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

And Hope attends, companion of the way,
Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day!
In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere
That gems the starry girdle of the year!
In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell,
Pure from their God, created millions dwell,
Whose names and natures, unrevealed below,
We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know;
For, as Iona’s Saint, a giant form, (f)
Throned on her tow'rs, conversing with the storm,
(When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined,

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 embosomed in the main;
Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,
And light, and life in mingling torrent ran,
From whence each bright rotundity was hurled,
The throne of God, -the centre of the world!

Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung
That suasive Hope hath but a Syren tongue!
True; she may sport with life's untutored day,
Nor heed the solace of its last decay,
The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,
And part like Ajut-never to return! (g)

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 hailed the dawning of the day;
Yet o'er her lovely hopes that once were dear,
The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,

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