O that Time had stay'd its flight, Ere that Morning left the mainFatal as the Egyptian night,

When the eldest-born were slain.

Lash'd to madness by the wind,
As the Red Sea surges roar,
Leave a gloomy gulf behind,
And devour the shrinking shore;
Thus, with overwhelming pride,
Gallia's brightest, boldest boast,
In a deep and dreadful tide,

Roll'd upon the British host.

Dauntless these their station held,
Though, with unextinguish'd ire,
Gallia's legions, thrice repell'd,
Thrice return'd through blood and fire.

Thus, above the storms of time,
Towering to the sacred spheres,
Stand the pyramids sublime,-

Rocks amid the flood of years.

Now the veteran Chief drew nigh, Conquest towering on his crest,

Valor beaming from his eye,

Pity bleeding in his breast.

Britain saw him thus advance

In her Guardian Angel's form; But he lower'd on hostile France Like the Demon of the Storm.

On the whirlwind of the war
High he rode, in vengeance dire;
To his friends a leading star,

To his foes consuming fire.

Then the mighty pour'd their breath, Slaughter feasted on the brave: "Twas the Carnival of Death;

"T was the Vintage of the Grave.

Charged with Abercrombie's doom,
Lightning wing'd a cruel ball:
"T was the Herald of the Tomb,
And the Hero felt the call-

Felt-and raised his arm on high;

Victory well the signal knew,

Darted from his awful eye,

And the force of France o'erthrew.

But the horrors of that fight

Were the weeping Muse to tell,

Oh 't would cleave the womb of night, And awake the dead that fell!

Gash'd with honorable scars,

Low in Glory's lap they lie; Though they fell, they fell like stars, Streaming splendor through the sky.

Yet shall Memory mourn that day,
When, with expectation pale,
Of her soldier far away

In imagination wild,

She shall wander o'er this plain, Rave, and bid her orphan-child

Seek his sire among the slain.

Gently, from the western deep,
O ye evening breezes, rise!
O'er the Lyre of Memnon sweep,
Wake its spirit with your sighs.
Harp of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres,
While the Hero's dirge is sung

Breathe enchantment to our ears.
Let thy numbers soft and slow,
O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying, while they flow
To the memory of the dead.
None but solemn, tender tones

Tremble from thy plaintive wires: Hark! the wounded warrior groans: Hush thy warbling!-he expires. Hush! while Sorrow wakes and weeps O'er his relics cold and pale Night her silent vigil keeps,

In a mournful moonlight veil.

The poor widow hears the tale.

A weaker or a warmer heart.

His fervent soul, a soul of flame,
Consumed its frail terrestrial frame;
That fire from Heaven so fiercely burn'd,
That whence it came it soon return'd:
And yet, O Pillow! yet to me,
My gentle Friend survives in thee;
In thee, the partner of his bed,
In thee, the widow of the dead.

On Helicon's inspiring brink,
Ere yet my Friend had learn'd to think,
Once as he pass'd the careless day
Among the whispering reeds at play,
The Muse of Sorrow wander'd by;
Her pensive beauty fix'd his eye;
With sweet astonishment he smiled;
The Gipsy saw-she stole the child;
And soft on her ambrosial breast
Sang the delighted babe to rest;
Convey'd him to her inmost grove,
And loved him with a Mother's love.
Awaking from his rosy nap,
And gaily sporting on her lap,
His wanton fingers o'er her lyre
Twinkled like electric fire:
Quick and quicker as they flew,
Sweet and sweeter tones they drew;
Now a bolder hand he flings,

And dives among the deepest strings,
Then forth the music brake like thunder;
Back he started, wild with wonder.
The Muse of Sorrow wept for joy,
And clasp'd and kiss'd her chosen boy.

Ah! then no more his smiling hours Were spent in Childhood's Eden-bowers; The fall from Infant-innocence,

The fall to knowledge drives us thence:
O Knowledge! worthless as the price,
Bought with the loss of Paradise.
As happy ignorance declined,
And reason rose upon his mind,
Romantic hopes and fond desires
(Sparks of the soul's immortal fires)
Kindled within his breast the rage
To breathe through every future age,
To clasp the flitting shade of fame,
To build an everlasting name,
O'erleap the narrow vulgar span,
And live beyond the life of man.

Then Nature's charms his heart possess'd, And Nature's glory fill'd his breast: The sweet Spring-morning's infant rays, Meridian Summer's youthful blaze, Maturer Autumn's evening mild, And hoary Winter's midnight wild, Awoke his eye, inspired his tongue; For every scene he loved, he sung. Rude were his songs, and simple truth Till Boyhood blossom'd into Youth; Then nobler themes his fancy fired, To bolder flights his soul aspired; And as the new moon's opening eye Broadens and brightens through the sky, From the dim streak of western light To the full orb that rules the night;

Thus, gathering lustre in its race,
And shining through unbounded space,
From earth to heaven his Genius soar'd,
Time and eternity explored,

And hail'd, where'er its footsteps trod,
In Nature's temple, Nature's God:
Or pierced the human breast, to scan
The hidden majesty of Man;
Man's hidden weakness too descried,
His glory, grandeur, meanness, pride:
Pursued along their erring course
The streams of passion to their source:
Or in the mind's creation sought

New stars of fancy, worlds of thought.
-Yet still through all his strains would flow
A tone of uncomplaining woe,
Kind as the tear in Pity's eye,
Soft as the slumbering Infant's sigh,
So sweetly, exquisitely wild,

It spake the Muse of Sorrow's child.

O Pillow! then, when light withdrew,
To thee the fond enthusiast flew;
On thee, in pensive mood reclined,
He pour'd his contemplative mind,
Till o'er his eyes with mild control
Sleep like a soft enchantment stole,
Charm'd into life his airy schemes,
And realized his waking dreams.

Soon from those waking dreams he woke,
The fairy spell of fancy broke;
In vain he breathed a soul of fire
Through every chord that strung his lyre.
No friendly echo cheer'd his tongue;
Amidst the wilderness he sung;
Louder and bolder bards were crown'd,
Whose dissonance his music drown'd;
"The public ear, the public voice,
Despised his song, denied his choice,
Denied a name, a life in death,
Denied

a bubble and a breath.

Stript of his fondest, dearest claim, And disinherited of fame, To thee, O Pillow! thee alone, He made his silent anguish known; His haughty spirit scorn'd the blow That laid his high ambition low; But, ah! his looks assumed in vain A cold ineffable disdain,

While deep he cherish'd in his breast The scorpion that consumed his rest.

Yet other secret griefs had he, O Pillow! only told to thee: Say, did not hopeless love intrude On his poor bosom's solitude? Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined, In dreams the cruel Fair was kind, That more intensely he might know The bitterness of waking woe.

Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd, To thee in midnight groans reveal'd, They stung remembrance to despair; "A wounded Spirit who can bear?"

Meanwhile Disease, with slow decay,
Moulder'd his feeble frame away;
And as his evening sun declined,
The shadows deepen'd o'er his mind.
What doubts and terrors then possess'd
The dark dominion of his breast!
How did delirous fancy dwell
On Madness, Suicide, and Hell!

There was on earth no Power to save:
-But, as he shudder'd o'er the grave,
He saw from realms of light descend
The friend of him who has no friend,
Religion!-Her almighty breath
Rebuked the winds and waves of death;
She bade the storm of frenzy cease,
And smiled a calm, and whisper'd peace:
Amidst that calm of sweet repose,
To Heaven his gentle Spirit rose.

Till his Master, from above,
When the promised hour was come,
Sent the chariot of his love
To convey the Wanderer home.

Saw ye not the wheels of fire,
And the steeds that cleft the wind?
Saw ye not his soul aspire,
When his mantle dropp'd behind?

Ye who caught it as it fell,

Bind that mantle round your breast;
So in you his meekness dwell,
So on you his spirit rest!

Yet, rejoicing in his lot,
Still shall Memory love to weep
O'er the venerable spot
Where his dear cold relics sleep.

Grave! the guardian of his dust,
Grave! the treasury of the skies,
Every atom of thy trust

Rests in hope again to rise.

THE THUNDER-STORM.

O FOR Evening's brownest shade!
Where the breezes play by stealth
In the forest-cinctured glade,

Round the hermitage of Health: While the noon-bright mountains blaze In the sun's tormenting rays.

O'er the sick and sultry plains,
Through the dim delirious air,
Agonizing silence reigns,

And the wanness of despair.
Nature faints with fervent heat,
Ah! her pulse hath ceased to beat.

Now, in deep and dreadful gloom, Clouds on clouds portentous spread, Black as if the day of doom

Hung o'er Nature's shrinking head Lo! the lightning breaks from high, -God is coming!-God is nigh!