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Soon that dream to fate shail turn,
For him the living furies burn;
For him the vulture sits on yonder misty peak,
And chides the lagging night, and whets her hungry beak.
Hark! the trumpet's warning breath
Echoes round the vale of death.
Unhorsed, unhelmed, disdaining shield,
The panting tyrant scours the field.
Vengeance! he meets thy dooming blade!
The scourge of earth, the scorn of heaven,
He falls unwept and unforgiven,
And all his guilty glories fade.
Like a crush'd reptile in the dust he lies,
And Hate's last lightning quivers from his eyes!
Behold yon crownless king-
Yon white-lock'd, weeping sire :—
Where heaven's unpillar'd chambers ring,
And burst their streams of flood and fire!
He gave them all-the daughters of his love;—
That recreant pair!-they drive him forth to rove;
In such a night of wo,
The cubless regent of the wood
Forgets to bathe her fangs in blood,
And caverns with her foe!
Yet one was ever kind,—
Why lingers she behind?
O pity-view him by her dead form kneeling,
Even in wild frenzy holy nature feeling.
His aching eyeballs strain
To see those curtain'd orbs unfold,
That beauteous bosom heave again,—
But all is dark and cold.
In agony the father shakes;
Grief's choking note
Swells in his throat,
Each wither'd heart-string tugs and breaks! Round her pale neck his dying arms he wreathes,
And on her marble lips his last, his death-kiss breathes.
Down! trembling wing-shall insect weakness keep
The sun-defying eagle's sweep?
A mortal strike celestial strings,
And feebly echo what a seraph sings?
Who now shall grace the glowing throne,
Where, all unrivall'd, all alone,
Bold Shakspeare sat, and look'd creation through,
The Minstrel Monarch of the worlds he drew?
That throne is cold-that lyre in death unstrung,
On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung.
Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps,
One spot shall spare-the grave where Shakspeare sleeps.
Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie,
But Nature's laureate bards shall never die.
Art's chisell'd boast, and Glory's trophied shore,
Must live in numbers, or can live no more.
While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim,
Still rolls th' Olympic car in Pindar's fame:
Troy's doubtful walls, in ashes past away,
Yet frown on Greece in Homer's deathless lay:
Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling fanes,
Stands all immortal in her Maro's strains:-
So, too, yon giant empress of the isles,
On whose broad sway the sun for ever smiles,
To Time's unsparing rage one day must bend,
And all her triumphs in her Shakspeare end!
O Thou! to whose creative power
We dedicate the festal hour,
While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand,
Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's rose-lipp'd band-
Realms yet unborn, in accents now unknown,
Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own.
Deep in the West, as Independence roves,
His banners planting round the land he loves,
Where nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace,
In time's full hour shall spring a glorious race :-
Thy name, thy verse, thy language shall they bear,
And deck for thee the vaulted temple there.
Our Roman-hearted fathers broke
Thy parent empire's galling yoke,
But thou, harmonious ruler of the mind,
Around their sons a gentler chain shalt bind ;-
In thee shall Albion's sceptre wave once more,
And what her monarch lost her monarch-bard restore.
YES, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctors' spite;
I love thy fragrant, misty spell,
I love thy calm delight.
What though they tell, with phizzes long,
My years are sooner past;
I would reply, with reason strong,
They're sweeter while they last.
And oft, mild friend, to me thou art
A monitor, though still;
Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart,
Beyond the preacher's skill.
Thou 'rt like the man of worth, who gives
To goodness every day,
The odor of whose virtues lives,
When he has pass'd away.
When in the lonely evening hour,
Attended but by thee,
O'er history's varied page I pore,
Man's fate in thine I see.
Oft as thy snowy column grows,
Then breaks and falls away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
Thus tumbled to decay.
Awhile like thee earth's masters burn,
And smoke and fume around,
And then like thee to ashes turn,
And mingle with the ground.
Life's but a leaf adroitly roll'd,
And time's the wasting breath,
That late or early, we behold,
Gives all to dusty death.
From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe,
One common doom is pass'd;
Sweet nature's works, the swelling globe,
Must all burn out at last.
And what is he who smokes thee now ?— A little moving heap,
That soon like thee to fate must bow,
With thee in dust must sleep.
But though thy ashes downward go,
Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus when my body must lie low,
My soul shall cleave the sky.
Two swallows, having flown into church during divine service, were apostrophized in the following stanzas.
What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer,
Ye have no sins to be forgiven.
Why perch ye here,
Where mortals to their Maker bend?
Can your pure spirits fear
The God ye never could offend?
The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,
Bless'd wanderers of the upper deep.
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven
To chirp away a life of praise.
Then spread each wing,
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing
yon blue dome not rear'd with hands.
To note the consecrated hour,
Teach me the airy way,
And let me try your envied power.
On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in you bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.
'T were heaven indeed,
Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On nature's charms to feed,
And nature's own great God adore.
WHEN from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,
An angel left her place in heaven,
And cross'd the wanderer's sunless path.
'T was Art! sweet Art! new radiance broke,
Where her light foot flew o'er the ground;
And thus with seraph voice she spoke,
"The curse a blessing shall be found."
She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noontide sunbeam never blazed :-
The thistle shrunk-the harvest smiled,
And nature gladden'd as she gazed.
Earth's thousand tribes of living things,
At Art's command to him are given,
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to heaven.
He rends the oak-and bids it ride,
To guard the shores its beauty graced;
He smites the rock-upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength, and domes of taste,
Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal,
Fire bears his banner on the wave,
He bids the mortal poison heal,
And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill:
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,