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Though now in swaddling-clothes he lies,
All hearts his power shall own,
Shall come to judge the quick and dead,
PAINS OF THE IMAGINATION.
On ocean's cliff, see beauty wild and pale,
Behold yon volumes of sulphureous smoke, Roll in black wreaths, and heaven with vapor choke ! The mountain trembles, and the earth afar Feels the dread shock of elemental war; Loud roars the ocean, and the mingled din Breaks on the ear from rumbling caves within: Then flames the crater: to the skies aspire The liquid gushes of volcanic fire. Aghast the peasant of Campania stands, And mourns his ruin'd cot, his deluged lands, Perchance his wife, his children's hapless doom, Buried in flame, and hurried to the tomb. While his lorn bosom is with anguish wrung, Cares he what bards the scene sublime have sung ? How many Plinies once admired the sight, Its grandeur traced, then perish'd in delight?
But hark in southern climes along the ground, Like distant thunders, runs a hollow sound: Wide and more wide extends the sullen jar, As when conflicting chariots rush to war;
Rocks, woods, and plains the wild commotion feel,
Oh! who hath not in fancy trod alone, The trackless deserts of the burning zone, Nor felt a dreariness oppress his soul, To mark the sands in eddies round him roll, Like ocean's billows, threatening to o'erwhelm, His wilder'd march, through many a weary realm? No verdure smiles, no crystal fountains play, To quench the arrows of the god of day, No breezy lawns, no cool, meandering streams, Allay the fervor of his torrid beams; No whispering zephyrs fan the glowing skies ; But o'er long tracts the mournful siroc sighs, Whose desolating march, whose withering breath Sweeps through the caravan with instant death; The wandering Arab, startled at the sound, Mantles his face, and presses close the ground, Till o'er his prostrate, weary limbs hath pass’d, In sullen gusts, the poison-wafting blast.
'Tis night: but there the sparkling heavens diffuse No genial showers, no soft-distilling dews; In the hot sky, the stars, of lustre shorn, Burn o'er the pathway of the wanderer lorn, And the red moon, from Babelmandel's strand, Looks, as she climbs, through pyramids of sand, That whirl'd aloft, and gilded by her light, Blaze the lone beacons of the desert night. From distant wilds is heard the dismal howl Of hideous monsters, that in darkness prowl: Urged by gaunt famine from his lair and home,
Along the waste, the tiger's footsteps roam,
MOSES Y. SCOTT,
Author of The Fatal Jest, and other pieces, published at New York, in 1819.
Rude was the storm, and her fallen hair
Wild was her look; but her eye was bright
6 White men, beware of Havoc's sweep!
“ Beware!—for, the tempest, chain'd so long,
“ The fire shall rage; for, the breeze is blowing-
66 White men, beware! And when at last,
HENRY WARE, JR. MINISTER of the Second Congregational Church in Hanover Street, Boston. He is more distinguished as a writer of prose than poetry; though in the latter, he has executed some beautiful things. Several of the best articles of criticism in the North American Review are from his pen.
THE VISION OF LIBERTY.
The evening heavens were calm and bright;
Those distant suns burn’d on with quiet ray;
The placid planets held their modest way ;
My spirit burn’d within; I caught
Around me man and nature slept;
Alone my solemn watch I kept,
I still was gazing up to heaven,
As in the early hours of even;
And all those countless sons of light
When, lo, upon the plain,
In towering grandeur broke upon my eye.
Flung up its time-defying towers;
And threats and arms deride.
And dungeons yawn'd below.
Bursting on my steadfast gaze,
See, within, a sudden blaze!
That scarcely stirs the pine tree top,
Nor makes the wither'd leaf to drop,
But soon it spread-
Raging with resistless power ;
And every stone seem'd burning coal,
Beautiful, fearful, grand,
At length a crackling sound began;
And louder yet, and louder grew,
And piecemeal driven
'Tis done; what centuries had rear’d,
In quick explosion disappear’d,
But in their place,-
Robed in more than mortal seeming,