This distant planet. Messengers still come,
Laden with your far fire, and we may seem
To see your lights still burning, while their blaze
But-hides the black wreck of extinguish'd-realms,
Where anarchy-and darkness long have reign'd.
Yet what is this which to the astonish'd mind
Seems measureless, and which the baffled thought
Confounds?
A span, a point in those dominions
Which the keen eye can traverse. Seven stars
Dwell in that brilliant cluster; and the sight
Embraces all at once; yet each from each
Recedes as far as each of them from earth,-
And every star from ev'ry other burns
No less remote.
From the profound of heaven,
Untravel'd e'en in thought,-keen-piercing rays
Dart through the void, revealing to the sense
Systems-and-worlds-unnumbered. Take the glass,
And search the skies. The opening heavens pour down
Upon your gaze-thick showers of sparkling fire;—
Stars crowded,—thronged, in regions so remote
That their swift beams-the swiftest things that be-
Have traveled centuries on their flight to earth.
Earth, sun, and nearer constellations, what
Are ye amid this infinite expanse
And multitude of God's most infinite works?
And these are Suns!-vast central,-living-fires,-
Lords of dependent systems,-kings of worlds—
That wait as satellites upon their power,
And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul,
And meditate and-wonder! Countless suns
Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds! Worlds-in whose bosoms-living things rejoice,
And drink the bliss of being from the fount
Of all-pervading love.
What tongue can utter all their multitudes?
Thus numberless in numberless abodes!
Known but to the blessed Father! Thine-they are
Thy children—and thy care; and none-o'erlooked
Of thee!-no, not the humblest soul that dwells
Upon the humblest globe-which wheels its course
Amid the giant glories of the sky,
Like the mean mote that dances in the beams,
Amongst the mirror'd lamps-which fling
Their wasteful splendor from the palace wall.
None can escape the kindness of thy care:
All compass'd underneath thy spacious wing,
Each fed and guided by thy powerful hand.
Tell me, ye splendid orbs,—as from your throne
Ye mark the rolling provinces that own
Your sway, what beings fill those bright abodes?
Do they bear
The stamp of human—nature, or has God
Peopled those purer realms-with lovelier forms
And more celestial-minds? Does innocence
Still wear her native and untainted bloom;
Or has sin breathed his deadly blight abroad
And sown corruption in those fairy bowers?
Or are they yet all Paradise,-unfallen
And uncorrupt,-existence one long joy,
Without disease upon the frame, or sin
Upon the heart,— -or weariness of life?
Hope never quenched,—and age—unknown,
And-death-unfear'd;-while fresh and fadeless youth
Glows in the light from God's near throne of love?
Open your lips, ye wonderful and fair!
Speak! speak! the mysteries of those living worlds
Unfold! No language? Everlasting light
And everlasting silence? Yet the eye
May read and understand. The hand of God
Has written legibly what man may know—
The glory of his Maker. There it shines,
Ineffable, unchangeable; and man,
Bound to the surface of this pigmy globe,
May know, and ask no more.
When death-shall give the encumbered spirit wings,
Its range shall be extended; it shall roam
Perchance amongst those vast mysterious spheres ;—
Shall pass from orb to orb,—and dwell in each,
Familiar with its children.
"How happy," exclaimed this child of air, "Are the holy Spirits who wander there 'Mid flowers that shall never fade or fall; Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blosson of Heaven outblooms them all.
"Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,
And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray; Yet,-oh! 't is only the blest can say
How the waters of Heaven outshine them all! "Go,-wing your flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall: Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years,
One minute of Heaven is worth them all!"
The glorious Angel, who was keeping
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping;
And, as he nearer drew and listen'd
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd
Within his eyelids, like the spray
From Eden's fountain, when it lies
On the blue flow'r, which-Brahmins say-
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.
"Nymph of a fair—but erring line!"
Gently he said-" One hope is thine.
'Tis written in the BOOK of FATE,
That Peri yet may be forgiven
Who brings to this eternal gate
The gift that is most dear to Heaven! Go,-seek it,-and redeem thy sin'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in.",
Rapidly as comets run
To the embrace of the Sun ;—
Fleeter than the starry brands
Flung at night from angel hands,
At those dark and daring sprites
Who would climb th' empyrical heights,
Down the blue vault the Peri flies,
And, lighted earthward by a glance
That just then broke from Morning's eyes,
Hung hov'ring o'er the world's expanse.
But whither shall the Spirit go
To find this gift from Heaven? "I know
The wealth," she cries, "of every urn,
In which unnumbered rubies burn,
Beneath the pillars of Chilminar:
I know where the Isles of Perfume are,
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright Araby;
I know, too, where the Genii hid
The jewel'd cup of their King Jamshid,
With Life's elixir sparkling high:
But gifts like these are not for the sky.
Where was there ever a gem that shone
Like the steps of Alla's wonderful Throne?
And the Drops of Life-oh! what would they be
In the boundless Deep of Eternity?"
While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd
The airs of the sweet Indian land,
Whose air is balm, whose ocean spreads
O'er coral rocks and amber beds;
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice
Might be a Peri's Paradise!
But crimson now her rivers ran
With human blood;-the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers; And man, the sacrifice of man,
Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers.
Land of the Sun! What foot invades
Thy Pagods and thy pillar'd shades,--
Thy cavern-shrines, and Idol-stones,
Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones?
'Tis He of Gazna-fierce in wrath
He comes, and India's diadems
Lie scattered in his ruinous path.
His bloodhounds he adorns with gems,
Torn from the violated necks
Of many a young and loved Sultana;
Maidens, within their pure Zenenna,
Priests-in the very fane he slaughters,
And chokes up with glittering wrecks
Of golden shrines the sacred waters!
Downward the Peri turns her gaze,
And, through the war-field's bloody haze,
Beholds a youthful warrior stand
Alone,-beside his native river,—
The red blade broken in his hand,
And the last arrow in his quiver.
"Live," said the Conqueror, "live to share
The trophies and the crowns I bear!"
Silent that youthful warrior stood;
Silent he pointed to the flood,
All crimson with his country's blood;
Then sent his last remaining dart,
For answer, to the Invader's heart.
False flew the shaft, though pointed well;
The Tyrant lived,-the HERO-fell!
Yet marked the Peri where he lay;
And when the rush of wars was past,
Swiftly descending on a ray
Of morning light, she caught the last,-
Last-glorious drop his heart had shed
Before his free-born spirit fled!
"Be this," she cried, as she winged her flight,
My welcome gift at the Gates of Light.
Though foul are the drops that oft distill
On the field of warfare,-blood like this,
For Liberty shed, so holy is,
It would not stain the purest rill
That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!
Oh! if there be on this earthly sphere
A boon, -an offering Heaven holds dear,
'T is the last libation Liberty draws
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!"
"Sweet," said the Angel,-as she gave
The gift into his radiant hand,—
"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave
Who die thus for their native land:-
But see-alas!-the crystal bar
Of Eden moves not;-holier far
Than even this drop the boon must be
That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"
BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL. F. S. COZENS.
It was a starry night-in June; the air-was soft—and still,
When the minute-men-(from Cambridge) came,-and gathered—on the hill.
Beneath us-lay the sleeping town; around us-frowned the fleet;
But-the pulse-of freemen, (not of slaves,) within our bosoms beat;
And every heart-rose high—with hope,-as-(fearlessly) we said,—
"We will be numbered—with the FREE,—or numbered—with the dead."
"Bring out the line-to mark the trench,—and stretch it—on the sword!"
The trench-is marked,—the tools-are brought,-and we utter-not word;
But stack our guns,-then fall to work—with mattock-and with spade,
A thousand men with sinewy arms,—and not a sound—is made:
-(the stars beneath) th't scarce a whisper—fell; We heard the red-coat's musket click,-and heard him cry,-(“All's well!")
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