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WHEN the radiant morn of creation broke, And the world in the smile of God awoke, And the empty realms of darkness and death Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame, From the void abyss, by myriads came, In the joy of youth, as they darted away, Through the widening wastes of space to play, Their silver voices in chorus rung; And this was the song the bright ones sung:
“Away, away! through the wide, wide sky,_
“For the Source of glory uncovers his face,
“Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, In the infinite azure, star after star, How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass! How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass! And the path of the gentle winds is seen, Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean.
“And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower;
. And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews;
“Away, away!—in our blossoming bowers,
“Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
Summer Evening at a short Distance from the City.— A Lonzo LEw Is.
AND now the city smoke begins to rise,
Then come the social joys of summer eve,
High overhead the stripe-winged nighthawk soars,
Around our heads the bat, on leathern wings,
The first sweet hour of gentle evening flies,
Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, The last that either bard shall e'er essay: The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, That first awoke them in a happier day: Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave; And he who feebly now prolongs the lay Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honors crave; His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave 1
Friend of my youth ! with thee began the love Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams, *Mid classic realms of splendors past to rove, O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams; Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, For ever lit by memory’s twilight beams; Where the proud dead, that live in storied page, Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.
There would we linger oft. entranced, to hear,
or hold communion with the musing soul Qf sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night, In loved Athenian groves, for truth’s eternal light.
Homeward we turned to that fair land, but late
And here forerunners strange and meet were found Of that blest freedom, only dreamed before;— Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. “Earth was their mother;” or they knew no more, Or would not that their secret should be told; For they were grave and silent; and such lore, To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.
Kind Nature’s commoners, from her they drew
They orough all his works,—their Father, King, and
And in the mountain mist, the torrent’s spray, The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day, They imaged spirits beautiful and good; But when the tempest roared, with voices rude, Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine, Or withering heats untimely seared the wood, The angry forms they saw of powers malign; These they besought to spare, those blessed for aid divine. As the fresh sense of life, through every vein, With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, And, as the fleet deer's, agile was their frame: Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name; These simple truths went down from sire to son, To reverence age, the sluggish hunter's shame, And craven warrior's infamy, to shun, And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.
From forest shades they peered, with awful dread, When, uttering flame and thunder from its side, The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, Came, Ploog gallantly the virgin tide. Few years have passed, and all their forests’ pride From shores and hills has vanished, with the race, Their tenants erst, from memory who have died, Like alry shapes, which eld was wont to trace, In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place.
And many a gloomy tale tradition yet
Friend of my youth ! with thee began my song,
But no! the freshness of that past shall still