On Heaven's proud towers, unshaken and sublime, 'Twas thine to mark the warm, primeval ray That led the infant steps of rosy Time,
When Nature's temple shone in new-born day.
That beam withdrew from Earth's polluted sphere, Back to its fount, eternal and divine,
Where the rapt spirits of empyreal air,
Hail Light's blest source with energies like thine.
The awful secrets of the world unknown,
Gave their deep horrors to thine ardent view, While tortured Feeling heaved the labouring groan, As fierce and red the bolts of Vengeance flew.
There frightful realms of terror and dismay,
In vain essayed to chill thy dauntless soul,
Inspired of Heaven, you urg'd your venturous way,
Where billowy clouds in nameless horrors roll.
Shuddering yon scenes of endless woe I trace,
Where Chaos glimmers in the flash of hell,
While sickening Nature turns her horrent face,
To think that Life should in these dungeons dwell.
From those unfathom'd caverns of Despair,
Where righteous Justice pours avenging ire,
Again you pierce the dull malignant air,
Thick in the vapours of sulphureous fire.
With eagle-speed you wing your daring flight,
From Night's dark throne, where Stygian shadows
lour,
To fire with beams of Heaven the dying light,
That faintly shone round Zion's distant tower.
And wondering mortals view the vivid beam
Ope brightening vistas through sepulchral gloom.
While long-lost scenes reviving in the gleam,
Glow in the hues of ever-living bloom.
With thee I mark Eternal Power arrest,
In crystal mountains, Jordan's rolling wave, While thrilling awe inspires the throbbing breast, As way-worn armies tread his deepest cave.
While vengeance threatens from Uriah's tomb,
With thee I gaze on Salem's holy towers,
As Guilt distracted hears a murderer's doom,
Even in the gale that shook his roseate bowers.
These glorious pictures of unfading hue,
Eternal monuments of power sublime,
Thy magic hand in orient colours drew,
Glowing impervious to consuming Time.
While Fancy hovers o'er Eurotas'+ stream,
Red in the torrent of Messenian blood;
Again I hear wild Freedom's maniac scream,
When her sons perished on the roaring flood.
Again I hear the faint expiring groan,
While the soul struggled in the mangled form,
Of him who fell before her trembling throne,
While Spartan laurels withered in the storm.
These solemn sounds aroused my startled soul,
Like pealing thunder at the dead of night,
When o'er the hills the bursting tempests roll,
And awful grandeur marks the cloudy flight.
Prophetic dreams thy labouring bosom warm, +
Of glorious days in Freedom's blissful reign,
When living fires shall the cold bosom warm,
Galled in Oppression's adamantine chain.
Oh bear these sounds, ye Zephyrs of the west,
Far o'er the ocean's proud tumultuous wave,
To sun-bright isles, where Nature groans opprest,
And drags the loathed existence of a slave.
O haste, ye airy wanderers of the sky,
And bear the minstrelsy of Erin's shore,
To wake the beaming blessing of the eye,
And bid the captive, Heaven's blest power adore.
Accept this lay-a faint response to thine,
Faint as when Echo hears an angel's hymn,
And tries in vain the melodies divine,
Borne by the wild winds to her caverns dim.
EDINBURGH, Nov. 19, 1802.
"Twas not the quick and dazzling glance,
That fires and overpowers the soul,
And wraps it in delirious trance,
That bow'd me to thy sweet controul:
No! 'twas from eyes of heavenly blue,
A languid, tender, timid ray,
Stealing through lids of darkest hue,
That won me from myself away.
'Twas not the firm, commanding voice,
Whose rapid eloquence o'erflows,
And seems at homage to rejoice,
That roused my breast from dull repose.
No! 'twas the soft and melting tones,
Like nectar dropping from thy tongue,
By which my heart thy empire owns ;
-Its every chord to Passion strung.
And while that winning voice I hear,
And while those beaming eyes I see,
Than light, or life, to me more dear,
My bosom's sovereign thou must be!
R. A. DAVENPORT.
TO ROBERT ANDERSON, M. D.
THE day shines bright, the storms are o'er
That blurr'd the face of winter hoar;
The icy breath of March has ceas'd;
Congenial with the bleak north-east
The sloe from ebon spears has giv❜n,
His scanty garlands tempest-driven,
To all the whirling winds of heaven:
Whilst ev'ry hawthorn spray is dight
With pearls enchas'd in emeralds bright;
Far richer than the girdle wore
By the proud tyrant of Mysore;
Nor purer could that gem appear,
Which shone unique in Charles's ear.
See Nature ev'ry joy renews
Shall man alone his praise refuse?
Now all the elements rejoice,
Creation lifts one grateful voice;
Come, let us join the jocund throng,
Come listen to the woodland song,
My friendly Genius, come along!
Exchange Edina's dusky towers,
For Roslyn's fane, and fragrant bowers
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