Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel 165 The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheelTurn 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!

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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! 4 Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore," March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore;

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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!

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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!

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In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere

That

gems the starry girdle of the year;

In those unmeasur'd worlds, she bids thee tell,
Pure from their God, created millions dwell,

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Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below,

We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know;
For, as Iona's Saint, a giant form,

6

Thron'd on her tow'rs, conversing with the storm,

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(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

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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,

And light and life in mingling torrent ran,

From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd,
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 untutor❜d day,
Nor heed the solace of its last decay,
The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,
And part like Ajut-never to return! 7

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;

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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!

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Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconcil'd,
The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child!
Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy
Smil'd on his sire, and fill'd his heart with joy!
My Absalom! (the voice of Nature cried!)
Oh! that for thee thy father could have died!
For bloody was the deed, and rashly done,
That slew my Absalom!-my son!-my son!

Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn,

When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!

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