There are who think that Childhood does not share
With age the cup, the bitter cup, of care:
Alas! they know not this unhappy truth,
That every age, and rank, is born to ruth.

From the first dawn of reason in the mind,
Man is foredoomed the thorns of grief to find;
At every step has farther cause to know
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe.

Yet in the youthful breast, for ever caught
With some new object for romantic thought,
The impression of the moment quickly flies,
And with the morrow every sorrow dies.

How different manhood!—then does Thought's control
Sink every pang still deeper in the soul;
Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart
Becomes a painful resident in the heart;
And care, whom not the gayest can outbrave,
Pursues its feeble victim to the grave.
Then, as each long known friend is summon'd hence,
We feel a void no joy can recompense,
And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb,
Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom.

Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue,
No forms of future ill salute thy view,
No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep,
But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep,
And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life,
Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife.
Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine,
Affection's little thread will ever twine;
And though but frail may seem each tender tie,
The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh.
Thus, when the long expected moment came,
When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame,
Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast,
And a still tear my silent grief express'd.

When to the public school compelled to go,
What novel scenes did on my senses flow?
There in each breast each active power dilates,
Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states;
Their reigns, by turns alternate, love and hate,
Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate;
And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere,
The dark deformities of man appear.
Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim,
There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame,
There mild Benevolence delights to dwell,
And sweet Contentment rests without her cell;
And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find
The good of heart, the intelligent of mind.

'T was there, O George! with thee I learn'd to join
In Friendship's bands—in amity divine.
Oh, mournful though!—Where is thy spirit now?
As here I sit on favorite Logar's brow,
And trace below each well remember'd glade,
Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd.
Where art thou laid—on what untrodden shore,
Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar?
Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state,
At last repose from all the storms of fate?
Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave,
Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save;
See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend,
And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend:
Or where immeasurable wilds dismay,
Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way,
While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife,
Consume apace the ebbing springs of life.
Again I see his door against thee shut,
The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut;
I see thee, spent with toil and worn with grief,
Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief;
Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er,
Think on thy native land—and rise no more!

Oh! that thou couldst, from thine august abode,
Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road,
That thou couldst see him, at this moment here,
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear,
And hover o'er him as he gazes round,
Where all the scenes of infant joys surround.

Yes! yes! his spirit's near!—The whispering breeze
Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees;
And lo! his form transparent I perceive,
Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve:
He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe,
While deathly silence reigns upon the globe.

Yet ah! whence comes this visionary scene?
'T is Fancy's wild aërial dream I ween:
By her inspired, when reason takes its flight,
What fond illusions beam upon the sight!
She waves her hand, and lo! what forms appear!
What magic sounds salute the wondering ear!
Once more o'er distant regions do we tread,
And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead;
While, present sorrows banish'd far away,
Unclouded azure gilds the placid day,
Or, in the future's cloud-encircled face,
Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace,
And draw minutely every little wile,
Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile.

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate,
The Royal Mary solitary sate,
And view'd the moonbeam trembling on the wave,
And heard the hollow surge her prison lave,
Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight,
For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight;
There did she form full many a scheme of joy,
Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy,
Which bright thro' Hope's deceitful optics beam'd,
And all became the surety which it seem'd;
She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm,
In every tear a melancholy charm.

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep,
Just yield a scanty sustenance to the sheep,
With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,
To see the sun rise from his healthy bed;
To watch the aspect of the summer morn,
Smiling upon the golden fields of corn,
And taste, delighted, of superior joys,
Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes:
With silent admiration oft we view'd
The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd;
The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade,
Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd,
And the round orb itself, in azure throne,
Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone;
We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay,
Reviving Nature hail'd returning day;
Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping heads,
And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads,
While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight,
The birds sung pasans to the source of light:
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise,
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies,
And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more
Could trace him in his high aërial tour;
Though on the ear, at intervals, his song
Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along;
And we have thought how happy were our lot,
Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot,
Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve
Began in every dell her forms to weave,
We might pursue our sports from day to day,
And in each other's arms wear life away.

At sultry noon too, when our toils were done,
We to the gloomy glen were wont to run;
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet;
And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore,
Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more;
Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept,
Sung woe unto the wicked land—and wept;
Or, fancy-led, saw Jeremiah mourn
In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn.
Then to another shore perhaps would rove,
With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove;
Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose,
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes.

Sweet then to us was that romantic band,
The ancient legends of our native land—
Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair,
And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair,
By turns our thoughts engaged; and oft we talk'd
Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd,
And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom:
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow,
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe.

While thus employed, to us how sad the bell
Which summon'd us to school! 'T was Fancy's knell,
And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear,
It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear.
Yet even then, (for oh! what chains can bind,
What powers control, the energies of mind!)
E'en then we soar'd to many a height sublime,
And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time.

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk,
Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk,
When to the upland heights we bent our way.
To view the last beam of departing day;
How calm was all around! no playful breeze
Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees,
But all was still, save when, with drowsy song,
The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along;
And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee,
The distant church bells' mellow harmony;
The silver mirror of the lucid brook,
That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took;
The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides,
With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides;
The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight;
The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight;
All, all was pregnant with divine delight.
We loved to watch the swallow swimming high,
In the bright azure of the vaulted sky;
Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride
Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide,
And tinged with such variety of shade,
To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd.
In these what forms romantic did we trace,
While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space!
Now we espied the Thunderer in his car,
Leading the embattled seraphim to war,
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high,
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky—
Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height,
A ridge of glaciers in mural white,
Hugely terrific.—But those times are o'er,
And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more;
For thou art gone, and I am left below,
Alone to struggle through this world of woe.

The scene is o'er—still seasons onward roll,
And each revolve conducts me toward the goal;
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief,
One endless continuity of grief;
And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime,
Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time.

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant
For hoards of wealth which ye will never want:
And lost to all but gain, with ease resign
The calms of peace and happiness divine!
Far other cares be mine—Men little crave
In this short journey to the silent grave;
And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health,
I envy more than Croesus with his wealth.
Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree
Paternal acres to await on me;
She gave me more, she placed within my breast
A heart with little pleased—with little bless'd:
I look around me, where, on every side,
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride;
And could my sight be borne to either zone,
I should not find one foot of land my own.

But whither do I wander? shall the muse,
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse?
Oh, no! but while the weary spirit greets
The fading scenes of childhood's far gone sweets,
It catches all the infant's wandering tongue,
And prattles on in desultory song.
That song must close—the gloomy mists of night
Obscure the pale stars' visionary light,
And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet,
Steals on the welkin in primæval jet.

The song must close.—Once more my adverse lot
Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot:
Again compels to plunge in busy life,
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife.

Scenes of my youth—ere my unwilling feet
Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat.
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er,
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more,
Let me ejaculate, to feeling due,
One long, one last affectionate adieu.
Grant that, if ever Providence should please
To give me an old age of peace and ease,
Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days
May wear away in gradual decays:
And oh! ye spirits, who unbodied play,
Unseen upon the pinions of the day,
Kind genii of my native fields benign,
Who were....

       *        *        *        *        *

A DIVINE POEM.

BOOK I.

I.

  I sing the Cross!—Ye white-robed angel choirs,
    Who know the chords of harmony to sweep,
  Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires
    Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep,
    Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep,
  Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream
    Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep,
  Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream,
And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme.

II.

  Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state,
    Thy glittering fanes are level'd with the ground!
  Fallen is thy pride!—Thine halls are desolate!
    Where erst was heard the timbrels' sprightly sound,
    And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round,
  There breeds the wild fox lonely,—and aghast
    Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound,
  Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast
Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste.

III.

  It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers
    Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn
  Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers,
    While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn,
    That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born;
  And, with most bitter persecuting ire,
    Pursued his footsteps till the last day dawn
  Rose on his fortunes—and thou saw'st the fire
That came to light the world, in one great flash expire.

IV.

  Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light,
    To paint the agonies that Jesus bore!
  Oh! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might,
    To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore;
    While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour,
  And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim!
    May a frail mortal dare the theme explore?
  May he to human ears his weak song frame?
Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name.

V.

  Spirits of pity! mild crusaders, come!
    Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float,
  And give him eloquence who else were dumb,
    And raise to feeling and to fire his note!
    And thou, Urania! who dost still devote
  Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine,
    Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote,
  Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine,
And clothe him for the fight with energy divine.

VI.

  When from the temple's lofty summit prone,
    Satan, o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there,
  The son of God confess'd in splendour shone:
    Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air,
    Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair,
       *        *        *        *        *
    Fled the stern king of Hell—and with the glare
  Of gliding meteors, ominous and red,
Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head.

VII.

  Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late
    The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent
  His northering course, while round, in dusky state
    The assembling fiends their summon'd troops augment;
    Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went,
  While as they pass'd to regions more severe,
    The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament
  The solitary gale; and, fill'd with fear,
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near.

VIII.

  Where the North Pole, in moody solitude,
    Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around,
  There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude,
    Form a gigantic hall, where never sound
    Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound
  The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye
    Thrones him,—and, fix'd on his primæval mound,
  Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay
Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way.

IX.

  In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair,
    No sweet remain of life encheers the sight;
  The dancing heart's blood in an instant there
    Would freeze to marble.—Mingling day and night
    (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours light)
  Are there unknown; while in the summer skies
    The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height,
  Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies,
And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to rise.

X.

  'T was there, yet shuddering from the burning lake,
    Satan had fix'd their next consistory,
  When parting last he fondly hoped to shake
    Messiah's constancy,—and thus to free
    The powers of darkness from the dread decree
  Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent
    The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see
  The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent,
Discern the colours clear of every dark event.

XI.

  Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight,
    And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall,
  Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light,
    Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call.
    He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fall,
  Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound
    Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall,
  Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound,
Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround.

XII.

  High on a solium of the solid wave,
    Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic frost,
  He stood in silence;—now keen thoughts engrave
    Dark figures on his front; and, tempest-toss'd,
    He fears to say that every hope is lost.
  Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute;
    So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast,
  Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute,
Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute.

XIII.

  At length collected, o'er the dark Divan
    The arch fiend glanced as by the Boreal blaze
  Their downcast brows were seen, and thus began
    His fierce harangue:—"Spirits! our better days
    Are now elapsed; Moloch and Belial's praise
  Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod.
    Lo! the light breaks;—The astonish'd nations gaze,
  For us is lifted high the avenging rod!
For, spirits! this is He,—this is the Son of God!

XIV.

  "What then!—shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear?
    Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign
  Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear?
    Madness! The very thought would make me fain
    To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain,
  And hurl them at their Maker!—Fix'd as Fate
    I am his foe!—Yea, though his pride should deign
  To soothe mine ire with half his regal state,
Still would I burn with fix'd unalterable hate.

XV.

  "Now hear the issue of my cursed emprize.
    When from our last sad synod I took flight,
  Buoyed with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise,
    To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write
    His own self-condemnation; in the plight
  Of aged man in the lone wilderness,
    Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight;
  And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guess
What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess.

XVI.

  "Then thus in homely guise I featly framed
    My lowly speech:—'Good Sir, what leads this way
  Your wandering steps? must hapless chance be blamed
    That you so far from haunt of mortals stray?
    Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day.
  Nor trace of man have seen: but how! methought
    Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray
  I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught
That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.'

XVII.

  "'I am that man,' said Jesus, 'I am He.

    But truce to questions—Canst thou point my feet
  To some low hut, if haply such there be
    In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet
    With homely greeting, and may sit and eat;
  For forty days I have tarried fasting here,
    Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat,
  And now I hunger; and my fainting ear
Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing near.'

XVIII.

  "Then thus I answer'd wily:—'If, indeed,
    Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek
  For food from men?—Lo! on these flint stones feed,
    Bid them be bread! Open thy lips and speak,
    And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break'
  Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye
    Fix'd on my face;—the blood forsook my cheek,
  I could not bear his gaze;—my mask slipp'd by;
I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly.

XIX.

  "Then he rebuked me with the holy word—
    Accursed sounds; but now my native pride
  Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd,
    I bore him from the mountain's woody side
    Up to the summit, where extending wide
  Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes,
    Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were descried,
  And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains,
Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains.

XX.

  "'Behold,' I cried, 'these glories! scenes divine!
    Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays;
  And these, O rapture! these shall all be thine,
    If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise.
    Hath he not given to indigence thy days?
  Is not thy portion peril here and pain?
    Oh! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways!
  Seize the tiara! these mean weeds disdain,
Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendour gain.'

XXI.

  "'Is it not written,' sternly he replied,
    'Tempt not the Lord thy God!' Frowning he spake,
  And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide,
    Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake,
    And caught me up aloft, till in one flake
  The sidelong volley met my swift career,
    And smote me earthward.—Jove himself might quake
  At such a fall; my sinews crack'd, and near,
Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine ear.

XXII.

  "Senseless and stunn'd I lay; till casting round
  My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe
  Borne on a car of roses to the ground,
    By volant angels; and as sailing slow
    He sunk the hoary battlement below,
  While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam,
    Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow
  Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem,
On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream.

XXIII.

  "I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength;
    I smote the ether with my iron wing,
  And left the accursed scene.—Arrived at length
    In these drear halls, to ye, my peers! I bring
    The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king
   Thrice vanquished, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd!
    O shame! Is this the hero who could fling
  Defiance at his Maker, while array'd,
High o'er the walls of light, rebellion's banners play'd!

XXIV.

  "Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long;
    Hell yet shall have revenge. O glorious sight,
  Prophetic visions on my fancy throng,
    I see wild Agony's lean finger write
    Sad figures on his forehead!—Keenly bright
  Revenge's flambeau burns! Now in his eyes
    Stand the hot tears,—immantled in the night,
  Lo! he retires to mourn!—I hear his cries!
He faints—he falls—and lo!—'t is true, ye powers, he dies."

XXV.

  Thus spake the chieftain,—and as if he view'd
    The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced
  And chest inflated, motionless he stood,
    While under his uplifted shield he glanced,
    With straining eyeball fix'd, like one entranced,
  On viewless air;—thither the dark platoon
    Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there danced
  The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon,
Darken'd the disk of the descending moon.

XXVI.

  Silence crept stilly through the ranks.—The breeze
    Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands,
  When all the midnight gasping from the seas
    Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands
    High on the shrouds the spirit that commands
  The ocean-farer's life; so stiff—so sear
    Stood each dark power;—while through their numerous bands
  Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear
Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear.

XXVII.

  One there was there, whose loud defying tongue
    Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell
  Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long
    His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell
    His labouring ire; still syllable none fell
  From his pale quivering lip, but died away
    For very fury; from each hollow cell
  Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray,
And....
       *        *        *        *        *

XXVIII.

  "This comes," at length burst from the furious chief,
    "This comes of distant counsels! Here behold
  The fruits of wily cunning! the relief
    Which coward policy would fain unfold,
    To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven of old!
  O wise! O potent! O sagacious snare!
    And lo! our prince—the mighty and the bold,
  There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air,
While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her standard there."

XXIX.

  Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye
    Full on the speaker; dark it was and stern;
  He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily,
    And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts concern.
    Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn
  His soul to rage. "Behold, behold," he cried,
    "The lord of Hell, who made these legions spurn
  Almighty rule—behold he lays aside
The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied."

XXX.

  Thus ended Moloch, and his burning tongue
    Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat
  In slaughter. So, his native wilds among,
    The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat,
    Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet.
  Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword
    Had from its scabbard sprung; but toward the seat
  Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord,
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde.

       *        *        *        *        *

"Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved this of old: who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah? Who coped with Ithuriel and the thunders of the Almighty? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first awoke, and collected your scattered powers? Lastly, who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, and established that reign here which now totters to its base? How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on Satan's bravery? he who preys only on the defenceless—who sucks the blood of infants, and delights only in acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal contention. Away with the boaster who never joins in action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesitation; let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our counselled purposes determinately. In power we have learned, by that experiment which lost us Heaven, that we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer:—In subtlety, in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is impossible.

       *        *        *        *        *

  "Thus we shall pierce our conqueror through the race
    Which as himself he loves; thus if we fall,
  We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace,
    Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call
    Of vengeance rings within me! Warriors all,
  The word is vengeance, and the spur despair.
    Away with coward wiles!—Death's coal-black pall
  Be now our standard!—Be our torch the glare
Of cities fired! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air!"

  Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old,
    Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves,
  Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms untold
    And mystery. His wandering spirit roves,
    Now vainly searching for the flame it loves;
  And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire,
    Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves
  And cinnamon unheap'd the sacred pyre,
And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire.

  He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast,
    And sighing—his papyrus scarf survey'd,
  Woven with dark characters, then thus address'd
    The troubled council.

       *        *        *        *        *

I.

  Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme
    With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung
  Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
    The lyre which I in early days have strung:
    And now my spirit's faint, and I have hung
  The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,
    On the dark cypress! and the strings which rung
  With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er,
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no more.

  And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
    Shall I no more reanimate the lay?
  Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,
    Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
    One little space prolong my mournful day!
  One little lapse suspend thy last decree!
    I am a youthful traveller in the way,
  And this slight boon would consecrate to thee,
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.

       *        *        *        *        *

IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK.

  Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold
Your brilliant places in the sable vault
Of night's dominions!—Planets, and central orbs
Of other systems!—big as the burning sun
Which lights this nether globe,—yet to our eye
Small as the glowworm's lamp!—To you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd,
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts;
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold,
And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator! Him! who now sublime,
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude
Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres
Sits on his silent throne and meditates.

  The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven,
Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime,
Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great,"
In varied harmonies.—The glorious sounds
Roll o'er the air serene—The Æolian spheres,
Harping along their viewless boundaries,
Catch the full note, and cry, "The Lord is great,"
Responding to the Seraphim. O'er all
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne,
Till the whole universe is full of Him.

  Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.

  Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale
Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!
Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works!
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,
One look of kind benevolence?—Thou canst:
For Thou art full of universal love,
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour.

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,
How insignificant do all the joys,
The gaudes, and honours of the world appear!
How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatch'd the slow-paced night!—Why on the page,
The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay
The loss of health? or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb into my languid heart,
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?

Say, foolish one—can that unbodied fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness,
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?
Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!
How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God!
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling.—All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.

OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE.

Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in his eye.—Mary, awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low.
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart.—Come, as thou didst,
When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd,
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne
Of the startled night!—O! then, as lone reclining,
I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm,
Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering
Didst strike my moody eye;—dead pale thou wert,
Yet passing lovely.—Thou didst smile upon me,
And oh! thy voice it rose so musical,
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,
And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd,
Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose,
Lock'd in the arms of silence.

          Spirit of her!
My only love! O! now again arise,
And let once more thine aëry accents fall
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling
On the still air, the distant waterfall
Mingles its melody;—and, high above,
The pensive empress of the solemn night,
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds,
Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky.
No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll
Dare now assemble at their mystic revels.
It is a night when, from their primrose beds,
The gentle ghosts of injured innocents
Are known to rise and wander on the breeze,
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch,
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul.
The spirit of my love might now awake,
And hold its custom'd converse.

          Mary, lo!
Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,
And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows
On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him
In solemn music a funereal dirge,
Wild and most sorrowful. His cheek is pale,
The worm that prey'd upon thy youthful bloom
It canker'd green on his. Now lost he stands,
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew,
Which bathes his aching temples, gives sure omen
Of speedy dissolution. Mary, soon
Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine,
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death.

A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE.

  You bid me, Ned, describe the place
Where I, one of the rhyming race,
Pursue my studies con amore,
And wanton with the muse in glory.

  Well, figure to your senses straight,
Upon the house's topmost height,
A closet just six feet by four,
With whitewash'd walls and plaster floor.
So noble large, 'tis scarcely able
To admit a single chair and table:
And (lest the muse should die with cold)
A smoky grate my fire to hold:
So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose
To melt the icedrop on one's nose;
And yet so big, it covers o'er
Full half the spacious room and more.

  A window vainly stuff'd about,
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim
That soon they mean to leave the frame.

  My furniture I sure may crack—
A broken chair without a back;
A table wanting just two legs,
One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;
A desk—of that I am not fervent,
The work of, Sir, your humble servant;
(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;)
A glass decanter and a tumbler,
From which my night-parch'd throat I lave,
Luxurious, with the limpid wave.
A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And saw'd by me in all directions;
So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em
Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
To these, if you will add a store
Of oddities upon thee floor,
A pair of globes, electric balls,
Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls,
And crowds of books, on rotten shelves,
Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;
I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,
You'll have my earthly catalogue.
But stay,—I nearly had left out
My bellows destitute of snout;
And on the walls,—Good Heavens! why there
I've such a load of precious ware,
Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,
And organ works, and broken pedals;
(For I was once a-building music,
Though soon of that employ I grew sick);
And skeletons of laws which shoot
All out of one primordial root;
That you, at such a sight, would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.
There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,
A neck, on which, by logic good,
I know for sure a head once stood;
But who it was the able master
Had moulded in the mimic planter,
Whether 't was Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn:
But knowing well, that any head
Is made to answer for the dead,
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,
Nor think it aught of a misnomer
To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,
Because they both have beards, which, you know,
Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)
For some great man, I could not tell
But Neck might answer just as well,
So perch'd it up, all in a row
With Chatham and with Cicero.

  Then all around, in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.

  With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground.
For though confined, 't will well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confined
Can cramp the energies of mind!
Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 't will contain them all;
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold,
No more may Heaven her blessings give,
I shall not then be fit to live.

  Down the sultry arc of day
The burning wheels have urged their way;
And eve along the western skies
Sheds her intermingling dyes.
Down the deep, the miry lane,
Creaking comes the empty wain,
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits:
And oft, with his accustom'd call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.
The barn is still, the master's gone,
And thresher puts his jacket on,
While Dick, upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penn'd the sheepcote fast,
For 't was but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor:
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries.
With lolling tongue he runs to try
If the horse-trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans,
And supper messes in the cans;
In the hovel carts are wheel'd,
And both the colts are drove a-field;
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup.
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet,
And Bess has slink'd away to talk
With Roger in the holly walk.

  Now, on the settle all, but Bess,
Are set to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom and roguish Kate
Are swinging on the meadow gate.
Now they chat of various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings,
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the squire refuse;
How parson on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrain'd for rent.
Thus do they talk, till in the sky
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high,
And from the alehouse drunken Ned
Had reel'd—then hasten all to bed.
The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid—while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And nought from thieves or fire to fear;
Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.

Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published:—"It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets delight it."

  Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still!"
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will;
Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair,
But tell not Misery's son that life is fair.

  Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd,
And every year with new delight hast told,
Thou, who, recumbent on the lacquer'd barge,
Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge,
Thou mayst extol life's calm untroubled sea,
The storms of misery never burst on thee.

  Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines,
Go to the shade obscure, where merit pines;
Abide with him whom Penury's charms control,
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul,
Survey his sleepless couch, and, standing there,
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair!

  Press thou the lonely pillow of his head,
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled;
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half shut eye,
His trembling nostrils, and his deep drawn sigh,
His muttering mouth contorted with despair,
And ask if Genius could inhabit there.

  Oh, yes! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd,
And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd:
But now Neglect has stung him to—the core,
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more;
Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round,
And added Grief compels him to the ground.
Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan,
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on;
And the pale mother, pining to decay,
Weeps for her boy her wretched life away.

  Go, child of Fortune! to his early grave,
Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave;
Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head
On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed.
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there,
And tell us then that life is wondrous fair!

  Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd forth,
To encourage genius, and to foster worth;
On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend,
'T is just that every blessing should descend;
'T is just that life to thee should only show
Her fairer side but little mix'd with woe.

Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils.
Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind;
Communing lonely with his sinking soul,
And musing on the dubious glooms that lie
In dim obscurity before him,—thee,
Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call
At this still midnight hour, this awful season,
When, on my bed, in wakeful restlessness,
I turn me wearisome; while all around,
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness;
I only wake to watch the sickly taper
Which lights me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand
Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals,
Slow sapping the warm current of existence.
My moments now are few—the sand of life
Ebbs fastly to its finish. Yet a little,
And the last fleeting particle will fall
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented.
Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate,
While meditate we may.—We have now
—But a small portion of what men call time
To hold communion; for even now the knife,
The separating knife, I feel divide
The tender bond that binds my soul to earth.
Yes, I must die—I feel that I must die;
And though to me has life been dark and dreary,
Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive,
And Disappointment still pursued her blandishments,
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death,
The shuddering void, the awful blank—futurity.
Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme
Of earthly happiness—romantic schemes,
And fraught with loveliness; and it is hard
To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps,
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes,
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades,
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion.
Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry?
Oh! none;—another busy brood of beings
Will shoot up in the interim, and none
Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets
Of busy London:—Some short bustle's caused,
A few inquiries, and the crowds close in,
And all's forgotten.—On my grassy grave
The men of future times will careless tread,
And read my name upon the sculptured stone;
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears,
Recall my vanish'd memory. I did hope
For better things!—I hoped I should not leave
The earth without a vestige;—Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise, and I submit.
Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires!
No more of hope! the wanton vagrant Hope!
I abjure all. Now other cares engross me,
And my tired soul, with emulative haste,
Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for heaven.

When pride and envy, and the scorn
  Of wealth my heart with gall imbued,
I thought how pleasant were the morn
  Of silence, in the solitude;
To hear the forest bee on wing;
Or by the stream, or woodland spring,
To lie and muse alone—alone,
While the tinkling waters moan,
Or such wild sounds arise, as say,
Man and noise are far away.

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow
  To fill life's dusty way;
And who will miss a poet's feet,
  Or wonder where he stray:
So to the woods and wastes I'll go,
  And I will build an osier bower,
And sweetly there to me shall flow
  The meditative hour.

And when the Autumn's withering hand,
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land,
I'll to the forest caverns hie:
And in the dark and stormy nights
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites,
Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods;
Or, as it drifted soft and slow,
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow.

       *        *        *        *        *

Oh! thou most fatal of Pandora's train,
  Consumption! silent cheater of the eye;
Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain,
  Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye,
  But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie;
O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse,
  And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye,
While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues,
E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues.

Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth,
  Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd;
And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth
  I knew would never stay, till all consumed,
  In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd.

But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift,
  Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly
Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow,
  Preparing swift her passage to the sky.
Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance,
  The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye;
Yet soon did languid listlessness advance,
And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance.

Even when her end was swiftly drawing near,
  And dissolution hover'd o'er her head:
Even then so beauteous did her form appear,
  That none who saw her but admiring said,
  Sure so much beauty never could be dead.
Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye
Bent lowly down upon the languid—

       *        *        *        *        *

  Loud rage the winds without.—The wintry cloud
O'er the cold northstar casts her flitting shroud;
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale,
Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale;
Where now, shut out from every still retreat,
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat,
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood,
Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?
Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance
The drifted fleeces that around him dance,
And hurries on his half-averted form,
Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm.
Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch],
Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch,
Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame;
Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud,
What merry groups of vacant faces crowd;
These hail his coming—these his meal prepare,
And boast in all that cot no lurking care.

  What though the social circle be denied,
Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside,
Loves, with fix'd eye, to watch the fluttering blaze,
While musing Memory dwells on former days;
Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles—and still forgiven,
Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven.
Then heap the fire—shut out the biting air,
And from its station wheel the easy chair:
Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet
To hear without the bitter tempest beat,
All, all alone—to sit, and muse, and sigh,
The pensive tenant of obscurity.

       *        *        *        *        *

WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, "IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM."

"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel—most exquisitely feel;
My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye,
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act—whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I lived an unloved, solitary thing;
Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day
The piercing cares that wore my youth away:
Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel;
Even then I wept I had not power to heal:
Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,
I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom.
Who were my friends in youth?—The midnight fire—
The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;
To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh—yet, when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
Yes, thou didst wrong me, ... I fondly thought,
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought!
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;
I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes—and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine

H.K. WHITE.

Half past Eleven o'clock at Night.