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Bounded across thine ice rents, who disdained
The frozen outworks of thy steep ravines,
And through a labyrinth of chrystal rocks
Pressed his untired ascent, e'en he, and all
His iron-band of native mountaineers,
While scaling the aërial cupola
Of Nature's Temple, owned a breathless pang.
Thy most attenuate element is fit
For angel roamings. True, his zealous mind
Achieved its philosophic aim, and marked
And measured thee; but turned to earthly climes
Full soon, and bent in gladness toward the vale.

Mountain,—The sons of science or of taste
Need not essay such triumph. 'Tis more wise
And happier till a fiery chariot wait,,
To scan from lesser heights thy glorious whole;
To climb above the deep though lofty plain
That wrongs thee; pass its line of envious peaks,
And stationed at thy cross, sublime Flegere!
Thence meditate the monarch's grandeur; while
His host of subject hills are spread beneath ;
For scarce, till then, his own colossal might
Seems disenthralled; and mute astonishment,
Unquenched by doubt or dread, at each new step,
Shall own his aspect more celestial still.
There, in some hollow nook reclining, whence
The bright-eyed chamois sprang ; with tufted bells
Of rhododendron blushing at my feet ;
The unprofaned recess of Alpine life
Were all my world that hour; and the vast mount
In his lone majesty would picture heaven.

Bright mountain,-Ah! but volumed clouds enwrap
Thy broad foundations, curtain all thy steeps,
And, rising as the orb of day declines,
Brood on the vassal chain that flank thee round,
Then thy whole self involve-save, haply, when
A quick and changing vista may reveal

Some spotless portion of thy front, and shew
Thee not unstable, like the earth-born cloud,
Brilliant though hid, abiding if unseen.
Then, as the vale grows darker, and the sun
Deserts unnumbered hills, o'er that high zone
Of gathered vapour thou dost sudden lift
Thy silver brow, calm as the hour of eve,
Clear as the morning, still as the midnight,
More beautiful than noon; for lo! the sun
Lingers to greet thee with a roseate ray,
And on thy silver brow his bright farewell
Is gleaming :-Mountain, Though art half divine !
Severed from earth! Irradiate from heaven!

Thus e'en the taught of heaven, with joyless eye
Fixed on the sable clouds which fear hath cast
O’er all the landscape of his destiny,
May fail to pierce them ; but, though legioned shapes
Of nether evil, though the deep array
Of stern adversities, and murky hosts
Of dark illusions blot his upper skies,
Yet, as they change, through that incumbent gloom
Shall he catch glimpses of the hallowed mount,
And weep that heaven is bright.—And at the hour
Of stillness, when e'en frightful shadows fade,
When night seems closing o'er his latest hopes,
And his sun set for ever,—then, behold,
Emerging in mid heaven, thy glistening top
Oh, Zion! and the God that ruled his day
Hath not departed ; for he poureth now
His radiance on thy summits, glancing back
A thrilling flood into his servant's soul !
"Joy full of glory!'-Was the noon-day dark ?
It was ;-but eve is cloudless ; night is peace;

Rapture shall gild the never-ending morn!
Sheffield Iris.

S.

ODE,

WRITTEN FOR RECITATION AT THE FAREWELL DINNER

IN HONOUR OF JOHN KEMBLE, ESQ.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

PRIDE of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !
Whose image brought the heroic age

Revived to Fancy's view ;
Like fields refreshed with dewy light,

When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright

Our memory of the past ;
And memory conjures feelings up,

That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup

To ‘Kemble, fare-thee-well!'

His was the spell o'er hearts

Which only acting lends,
The youngest of the sister arts,

Where all their beauty blends :
For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,

Steals but one glance from Time;
But, by the mighty actor brought,

Illusion's wedded triumphs come,
Verse ceases to be airy thought,

And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,

But ne'er efface the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,

Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resigned entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor ?

What English heart was not on fire

With him at Agincourt ? And yet a majesty possessed

His transport's most impetuous tone ; And to each passion of his breast

The Graces gave their zone.

High were the task, too high

Ye conscious bosoms here,
In words to paint your memory,

Of KEMBLE, and of Lear.
But who forgets that white discrowned head,

Those bursts of Reason's half extinguished glare, Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,

In doubt, more touching than despair ; If 'twas reality he felt

Had SHAKSPEARE's self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt,

And triumphed to have seen!

And there was many an hour

Of blended kindred fame, When SIDDONS's auxiliar power,

And sister magic came ;Together at the Muse's side,

Her tragic paragons had grown;They were the children of her pride,

The columns of her throne ! And undivided favour ran,

From heart to heart, in their applause Save for the gallantry of man,

In lovelier woman's cause.

Fair as some classic dome,

Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble's spirit was the home

Of genius and of taste.
Taste, like the silent dial's power,

That when supernal light is given,

Can measure inspiration's hour,

And tell its height in heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,

His mind surveyed the tragic page,
And what the actor could effect,

The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth ;

And must we lose them now !
And shall the scene no more shew forth

His sternly pleasing brow ?
Alas !—the moral brings a tear,-

'Tis all a transient hour below;
And we that would detain thee here,

Ourselves as fleetly go.
Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene renew :-
Pride of the British stage!

A long and last adieu !
Literary Gazette.

THE LAST TEAR.

SHE had done weeping, but her eyelash yet
Lay silken heavy on her lilied cheek,
And on its fringe a tear, like a lone star
Shining upon the rich and hyacinth skirts
O'the western cloud that veils the April even.
The veil rose up, and with it rose the star,
Glittering above the gleam of tender blue,
That widened as the shower clears off from heaven.
Her beauty woke,-a sudden beam of soul
Flashed from her eye, and lit the vestal's cheek

Into one crimson, and exhaled the tear.
Literary Gaxette.

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