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HYMN ON SOLITUDE.
Hail, mildly pleasing Solitude,
A thousand shapes you wear with ease, And still in every shape you please. Now wrapp'd in some mysterious dream, A lone philosopher you seem; Now quick from hill to vale you fly, And now you sweep the vaulted sky; A shepherd next, you haunt the plain, And warble forth your oaten strain; A lover now, with all the grace Of that sweet passion in your face; Then, calm’d to friendship, you assume The gentle-looking Hertford's bloom, As, with her Musidora, she (Her Musidora fond of thee), Amid the long-withdrawing vale, Awakes the rivald nightingale. Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born; And while meridian fervours beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
Descending angels bless thy train,
Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell !
Sunk is the sun, and on yon mountain head
Hangs the last gleam of the declining day; Fades every landscape, deepens every shade;
The clouds, late golden, now are robed in gray. And thine is now the rule, Imperial Night!
All mildly sittst thou on thy shadowy throne; While Superstition, seized with self-affright,
Throws o'er thy brow a horror all her own.
Now to her monster-breeding brain appear
And signs and portents boding ill to come; And flame-eyed goblins gliding o’er the green, And murder'd ghosts with bleeding wounds are
seen, And screechowls heard, that tell her of the tomb. But musing Wisdom seeks thy friendly shade,
To her more gentle than the glare of noon : She loves thy sober solemn charms array'd
With the pale glories of the pensive moon. Fatigued with pleasures, or with cares oppress’d,
Tired of the proud, the vicious, and the vain; How joys my soul, when wheel'd beneath the west
Sinks the gay sun, and hails thy gentler reign! Impertinence's buzz and busy wings, Envy's loud hiss, and sly Detraction's stings,
The taunts of Insolence, the wretch's woes, The stir and strife of Fortune and her tools, The roar of Riot, and the laugh of Fools
No longer interrupt her loved repose. Then Wisdom clears her intellectual eyes,
And elevates her aim to things Divine, Bids all the choir of Mental Graces rise,
Bids all the charms of Moral Beauty shine. Silent are now the groves, no silvan throat
Tunes its wild descant; but the hoot I hear Of the lone owl, though no melodious note,
Yet pleasing still to Contemplation's ear. The stars bright-sparkling o'er the ethereal way, The moon's mild gleams that ever quivering play On the light rills, that warble, as the wind, Gales hollow-roaring, hoarse resounding woods, Rude hanging rocks, dread shades, and dashing
In gentler flow the tides of passion roll,
And philosophic transports swell the soul.
Thence her rich store of form and colour brings, With curious art combined a thousand ways,
And paints her beauteous images of things.
Now wantons wild in aromatic groves,
Pensive and listening to the sighs of woe; Now sits sublime on Alpine heights enthroned, Mid the red blaze of lightnings flashing round,
And hears redoubled thunders roll below.
Now Horror's shade she seeks, and central cave,
Her ghastly visaged ghosts and floods of fire; Now joys in empyrean light to lave,
And catch new rapture from the Seraph's lyre. Then welcome, Night! thou awful pleasing fair!
While the moon seems along the clouds to sail, Which round her throne like fleecy flakes appear,
And now half hide her radiance, now reveal. Pride wants the Sun her plumage to display ; A soul, sublime from no material ray
Draws her rich splendours, or imbibes her joy; Reason's clear beam and Virtue's flame divine Shall with their own eternal glories shine,
When worlds and suns in endless darkness die.
And thou, Great Father! guard my sleeping hours,
Bid the wild war of striving passions cease, Compose in pleasing harmony my powers,
And o'er my throbbing bosom breathe thy peace. Thrice-happy souls who thy protection share !
Virtue in thy parental arms at rest Securely lies, as stranger yet to fear
The suckling slumbers on its mother's breast. Spirits, that hurl the thunders down the sky, Or drive the chariot of the storms on high,
And shake o'er trembling Guilt the fiery rod, Oft bid their vengeful rage the pious spare; Even flames, amid the general wreck, revere And pass untouch'd those temples of their God.
REV. H. MOORE.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. PELHAM.
LET others hail the rising sun,
Which sets in endless night;
With calm but cheerful light.
No future prospects prompt my lays,