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Pricks her bob-lail, and waves her ears,
“When wasted down to dust the creature dies, And happier than a queen appears :
Quick, from its cell, the enfranchised spirit flies; —Poor beast! from fell ambition free,
Fills, with fresh energy, another form, And all the woes of LIBERTY;
And towers an elephant, or glides a worm; Born in a gaol, a prisoner bred,
The awful lion's royal shape assumes ; No dreams of hunting rack thine head; The fox's subtlety, or peacock's plumes; Ah! mayst thou never pass these bounds Swims, like an eagle, in the eye of noon, To see the world--and feel the hounds! Or wails, a screech-owl, to the deaf, cold moon; Sull all her beauty, all her art,
Haunts the dread brakes, where serpents hiss and glare, Have fail'd to win her husband's heart; Or hums, a glittering insect, in the air. Her lambent eyes, and lovely chest;
The illustrious souls of great and virtuous men, Her swan-like neck, and ermine breast; In noble animals revive again : Her taper legs, and spotty hide,
But base and vicious spirits wind their way So softly, delicately pied,
In scorpions, vultures, sharks, and beasts of prey. In vain their fond allurements spread,
The fair, the gay, the witty, and the braye, To love and joy her spouse is dead.
The fool, the coward, courtier, tyrant, slave; But lo! the evening shadows fall
Each, in congenial animals, shall find
A home and kindred for his wandering mind.
“Even the cold body, when enshrined in earth, My faithful dog and I retire,
Rises again in vegetable birth : To play and chatter by the fire:
From the vile ashes of the bad proceeds ' Soon comes a turnkey with “Good night, sir!”
A baneful harvest of pernicious weeds ; And bolts the door with all his might, sir :
The relics of the good, awaked by showers, Then leisurely to bed I creep,
Peep from the lap of death, and live in flowers; And sometimes wake--and sometimes sleep.
Sweet modest flowers, that blush along the vale, These are the joys that reign in prison,
Whose fragrant lips embalm the passing gale."
EXTRACT FROM CANTO II.
Now, mark the words these dying lips impart, June 14, 1796.
And wear this grand memorial round your heart :
The Hand that built the palace of the sky
Form'd the light wings that decorate a fly;
The Power that wheels the circling planets round EXTRACT FROM CANTO I.
Rears every infant flow'ret on the ground; ONCE, on the mountain's balmy lap reclined,
That Bounty which the mightiest beings share
Children of air, and tenants of the floods;
For all that live and breathe have once been men, * Through the wide universe's boundless range, And, in succession, will be such again : All that exist decay, revive, and change :
Even you, in turn, that human shape must change, No atorn torpid or inactive lies;
And through ten thousand forms of being range. A being, once created, never dies. The waning moon, when quench'd in shades of night, 'Ah! then, refrain your brethren's blood to spill, Renews her youth with all the charms of light; And, till you can create, forbear to kill ! The flowery beauties of the blooming year
Oft as a guiltless fellow-creature dies, Shrink from the shivering blast, and disappear; The blood of innocence for vengeance cries : Yet, warm’d with quickening showers of genial rain, Even grim, rapacious 'savages of prey, Spring from their graves, and purple all the plain. Presume not, save in self-defence, to slay. As day the night, and night succeeds the day, What, though to Heaven their forfeit lives they owe, So death reanimates, so lives decay:
Hath Heaven commission'd thee to deal the blow ? Like billows on the undulating main,
Crush not the feeble, inoffensive worm, The swelling fall, the falling swell again ;
Thy sister's spirit wears that humble form! Thus, on the tide of time, inconstant, roll
Why should thy cruel arrow smite yon bird ? The dying body and the living soul.
In him thy brother's plaintive song is heard. In every animal, inspired with breath,
When the poor, harmless kid, all trembling, lies, The flowers of life produce the seeds of death ; And begs his little life with infant cries, The seeds of death, though scatter'd in the tomb, Think, ere you take the throbbing victim's breath, Spring with new vigor, vegetate and bloom. You doom a dear, an only child, to death.
When at the ring the beauteous heifer stands, From age to age, from world to world aspire,
-Stay, monster! stay those parricidal hands; And climb the scale of being higher and higher; Canst thou not, in that mild dejected face,
But who these awful mysteries dare explore ! The sacred features of thy mother trace?
Pause, O my soul! and tremble, and adore.
There is a Power, all other powers above,
Whose name is Goodness, and His nature Love: The faithful animal was once your friend; Who call'd the infant universe to light, The friend whose courage snatch'd you from the grave, From central nothing and circumfluent night. When wrapt in flames or sinking in the wave. On His great providence all worlds depend, -Rash, impious youth! renounce that horrid knife, As trembling atoms to their centre tend : Spare the sweet antelope! ah, spare thy wife!
In nature's face His glory shines confest, In the meek victim's tear-illumined eyes,
She wears His sacred image on her breast; See the soft image of thy consort rise ;
His spirit breathes in every living soul; Such as she is, when by romantic streams,
His bounty feeds, his presence fills the whole ; Her spirit greets thee in delightful dreams; Though seen, in visible though felt, unknown: Not as she look'd, when blighted in her bloom; All that exist, exist in Him alone. Not as she lies, all pale in yonder tomb;
But who the wonders of His hand can trace That mournful tomb, where all thy joys repose ! Through the dread ocean of unfathom'd space! That hallow'd tomb, where all thy griefs shall close. When from the shore we lift our fainting eyes,
Where boundless scenes of God-like grandeur rise ; While yet I sing, the weary king of light Resigns his sceptre to the queen of night;
|Like sparkling atoms in the noontide rays, Unnumber'd orbs of living fire appear,
Worlds, stars, and suns, and universes blaze!
Yet these transcendent monuments that shine, And roll in glittering grandeur o'er the sphere. Perhaps the soul, released from earthly ties,
Eternal miracles of skill divine,
These, and ten thousand more, are only still
The shadow of His power, the transcript of His will In each new forms assume, relinquish, change; April 14, 1796.
For Misery stole me at my birth,
Take home thy Child.
“ Lash'd by the furies of the mind,
A friend in me
" By all the terrors of the tomb,
By Death and Hell;
And sin no more.
And tranquil nights ?
For peace at last.
A quiet home.
A surer blow?
For friendship’s gold.
With heavenly balm.
And sold thy love?
But kills the heart
“A bruised reed he will not break;
He wounds to heal.
To fall no more.
Pursue thy flight.
Low in the ground,
A star of day.
SHALL NEVER DIE."
Ah! who would love the lyre ?
W. B. Stevens
WHERE the roving rill meander'd
Down the green retiring vale,
Pale with thought, serenely pale :
Breathed a melancholy grace,
Once his dear companion, hung,
Thus the pensi ve poet sung :
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon, And all the stars, around his head, Bénignly bright, their mildest influence shed.
- Thou yet shalt know, how sweet, how dear, To gaze on listening Beauty's eye ; To ask and pause in hope and fear
Till she reply.
* A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, A brighter maiden faithful prove; Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest
In woman's love.
“ Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart; Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
We must now for ever part: For in vain thy poet sings,
Wooes in vain thine heavenly strings; The Muse's wretched sons are born To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn. “That which Alexander sigh'd for,
That which Cæsar's soul possess'd, That which heroes, kings, have died for Glory-animates my breast :
-Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be, Confess thy folly, kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of GOD.
“What, though all the world neglect me,
Shall my haughty soul repine! And shall poverty deject me,
While this hallow'd Lyre is mine? Heaven-that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed, Heaven gave this Lyre,—and thus decreed, Be thou a bruised, but not a broken reed."
Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
Pour their death-defying notes ; • To arms!' they call : to arms I fly, Like Wolfe to conquer, and like Wolfe to die. "Soft!-the blood of murder'd legions
Summons vengeance from the skies;
All in awful judgment rise.
I will wrestle with the wave;
Waft me to that happy shore,
Indian realms their treasures pour :
Rich in honesty and wealth,
In their lowly dwellings sing ;
Undiscover'd as the spring,
Blessings with a secret hand-
Sigh'd to every passing breeze,
of the patriarch of trees;
Now no more to rapture strung;
REMONSTRANCE TO WINTER Ah! why, unfeeling Winter, why
Still flags thy torpid wing ? Fly, melancholy Season, fly,
And yield the year to Spring.
An exile in disgrace,-
Nor finds & resting-place.
Alights her fairy form,
Around her rolls the storm.
If to the valley she repair
For shelter and defence, Thy wrath pursues the mourner there,
And drives her, weeping, thence.
She seeks the brook, the faithless brook,
Of her unmindful grown,
And lingers into stone.
She wooes her embryo flowers in vain
To rear their infant heads Deaf to her voice, her flowers remain
Enchanted in their beds
In vain she bids the trees expand
Their green luxuriant charms Bare in the wilderness they stand,
And stretch their withering arms.
Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,
Hark!—the Lyre enchants the wind; Fond Alcæus listens, lingers,
-Lingering, listening, looks behind. Now the music mounts on high,
Sweetly swelling through the sky;
Soft in ecstacies expire ;
Poor Alcæus grasps the Lyre.
In a tempest o'er the strings; He strikes the chords so quick, so loud, "Tis Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud. " Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,
Solace of my bleeding heart;
We will never, never part.
Tempt me to the field, the main ;
Her favorite birds, in feeble noter,
Lament thy long delay ;
To charm thy blasts away.
Release the struggling year;
Arise and disappear.
Are lost in warmer rays;
Unrolls celestial days.
Still flags thy frozen wing?
The fairest prospects rise ;
There shine the purest skies,
Tremendous rocks arise ;
Tornadoes rend the skies :
The wily Siren shun:
Will surely be undone.
Sweet roses grace the thorny way
Along this vale of sorrow;
Shall bloom again to-morrow :
Life's cruel cares beguiling;
In gay good-humor smiling:
His reverend front adorning,
Night soften'd into Morning.
Ambrosial rills of pleasure :
A more resplendent treasure ?
Shall gild his proper station.
LINES WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF YARDLY OAK,
CELEBRATED BY COWPER.
See Hayles's Life and Letters of W. Cowper, Esq.
This sole survivor of a race
RELIGION, AN OCCASIONAL HYMN. THROUGH shades and solitudes profound
The fainting traveller winds his way; Bewildering meteors glare around,
And tempt his wandering feet astray. Welcome, thrice welcome, to his eye,
The sudden moon's inspiring light, When forth she sallies through the sky,
The guardian angel of the night.
A thousand years are like a day,
But mournful Cowper, wandering nigh, For rest beneath its shadow came, When, lo! the voice of days gone by Ascended from its hollow frame.
Thus mortals, blind and weak, below
Pursue the phantom Bliss, in vain ; The world's a wilderness of woe,
And life a pilgrimage of pain,
O that the Poet had reveal'd
-Yet in his song the Oak remains.
Till mild RELIGION, from above,
Descends, a sweet engaging formThe messenger of heavenly love,
The bow of promise in a storm.
And fresh in undecaying prime,
· Then guilty passions wing their flight,
Sorrow, remorse, affliction cease; Religion's yoke is soft and light,
And all her paths are paths of peace.
Ambition, pride, revenge depart,
And folly flies her chastening rod; She makes the humble contrite heart
A temple of the living God.
SONG WRITTEN FOR A SOCIETY, WHOSE MOTTO WAS
" FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH." WHEN “Friendship, Love, and Truth" abound
Among a band of Brothers,
Each shares the bliss of others :
Beyond the narrow vale of time,
Where bright celestial ages roll, To scenes eternal, scenes sublime, She points the way, and leads the soul.