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Resistiess, not to be contrould, that guides, In solitude of unshared energies, All these thy ceaseless miracles, O world! Arm of the world, I view thee, and I muse On Man, who trusting in his mortal strength, Leans on a shadowy staff, a staff of dreams. We consecrate our total hopes and fears To idols, flesh and blood, our love, (heaven's due) Our praise and admiration; praise bestowed By man on man, and acts of worship done To a kindred nature, certes do reflect Some portion of the glory and rays oblique Upon the politic worshipper-so man Extracts a pride from his humility, Some braver spirits of the modern stamp Affect a Godhead nearer: these talk loud Of mind, and independant intellect, Of energies omnipotent in man, And man of his own fate artificer; Yea of his own life Lord, and of the days Of his abode on earth, when time shall be, That life immortal shall become an art, Or death, by chymic practices deceived, Forego the scent, which for six thousand years Like a good hound he has followed, or at length More manners learning, and a decent sense And reverence of a philosophic world, Relent, and leave to prey on carcasses. But these are fancies of a few: the rest, Atheists, or Deists only in the name, By word or deed deny a God. They eat

Their daily bread, and draw the breath of heaven
Without a thought or thanks; heaven's roof to them
Is but a painted ceiling hung with lamps,
No more, that lights them to their purposes.
They wander “loose about,” they nothing see,
Themselves except, and creatures like themselves,
Short-liv’d, short-sighted, impotent to save.
So on their dissolute spirits, soon or late,
Destruction cometh “like an armed man,”
Or like a dream of murder in the night,
Withering their mortal faculties, and breaking
The bones of all their pride.

LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.

Lord Byron.

START not-nor deem my spirit fled:

In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,

Whatever flows is never dull. ;.

I lived, I loved, I quaff’d, like thee;

I died; let earth my bones resign :
Fill up, thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.

Where once my wit, perchance hath shone,

In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,

What nobler substitute than wine!

Quaff while thou canst-another race,

When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace,

And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? since through life's little day

Our heads such sad effects produce Redeemed from worms and wasting clay,

This chance is theirs, to be of use.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES THAT LEAVE ME.

T. Woore.

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me,

If thy smile had left me too;
I'd weep, when friends deceive me,

If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But, while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me,

That smile turns them all to light!

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"Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me, 'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shared with thee. One minute's dream about thee,

Were worth a long, an endless year, Of waking bliss without thee,

My own love, my only dear!

And, tho' the hope be gone, love,

That long sparkled o'er our way, Oh! we shall journey on, love,

More safely, without its ray. Far better lights shall win me,

Along the path I've yet to roam, The mind, that burns within me, And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted

The traveller, at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted,

And looks round with fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless star-light, on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering,

As that light which Heaven sheds !

AN EVENING WALK AT CROMER, 1793.

Mrs. Opie.

HAIL scene sublime! along the Eastern hills
Night draws her veil, and lo! the * circling lamp
That guides the vessel thro' the ambush'd rocks,
Hangs in bright contrast on her dusky brow,
And smiles away its gloom.-See from the West,
A branching stream of silver radiance flows
On Ocean's bosom, till it emulates
The trembling lustre of the milky way;
While the dark cliffs projecting o'er the waves,
And frowning, (Fancy whispers) envious seem
Of the soft light they share not. In the South,
The star of evening sheds her pallid rays;
While from the humble cottages that skirt
Yon hill's uneven side, lights redly shine
Contrasting Art with Nature, and fill up
The chain of objects that leads captive sight,
And to the shrine of meditation draws
The wanderer's soul.-But hark! the awaken's Owl
Majestic, slow, on sounding wing sails by,
And, rous'd to active life, enjoys the hour
That gives his winking eyelids leave to rest,
While his bright eye, dim in day's dazzling light
Now into distance shoots its beams, and guides
The unwieldy spoiler to his creeping prey,
Which having seiz'd, again on murmuring wing
He cleaves the tranquil air, and to his nest
Proudly bears home the feast, he toil'd to gain;

* The lamps in Cromer light-hoise revolve.

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