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النشر الإلكتروني

With sharpen'd eyes inspect a hornet's sting,
And all the wonders of an insect's wing.
Some trace with curious search the hidden cause
Of Nature's changes, and her various laws;
Untwist her beauteous web, disrobe her charms,
And hunt her to her elemental forms;

Or prove what hidden pow'rs in herbs are found,
To quench disease, and cool the burning wound;
With cordial drops the fainting head sustain,
Call back the flitting soul, and still the throbs of pain.
The patriot passion this shall strongly feel,
Ardent, and glowing with undaunted zeal;
With lips of fire shall plead his country's cause,
And vindicate the majesty of laws.

This, cloth'd with Britain's thunder, spread alarms
Through the wide earth, and shake the pole with arms.
That to the sounding lyre his deeds rehearse,
Enshrine his name in some immortal verse,.
To long posterity his praise consign,
And pay a life of hardships by a line.
While others, consecrate to higher aims,
Whose hallow'd bosoms glow with purer flames,
Love in their hearts, persuasion on their tongue,
With words of peace shall charm the list'ning throng,
Draw the dread veil that wraps th' eternal throne,
And launch our souls into the bright unknown.




THOU, the Nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temp'rate vow:
Not all the storms, that shake the pole,,
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth, unalter'd brow.

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Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye,

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op'ning through this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temp❜rate joys în even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying check,
To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage,
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet :
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.


But thou, O Nymph retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss rose and vi'let blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

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When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And ev'ry storm is laid?
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whisp'ring through the shade.




THOU, to whom the world unknown
With all it's shad'wy shapes is shown;
Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene,
While Fancy lifts the veil between :
Ah Fear! ah frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near.

I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly;
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear!
Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fix'd behold?
Who stalks his round, a hideous form,
Howling amidst the midnight storm,
Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep:
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind:
And those, the fiends, who, near allied,
O'er Nature's wounds and wrecks preside;
While Vengeance in the lurid air
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare;

On whom that rav'ning brood of Fate,
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?

Thou who such weary lengths hast pass'd,
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last?
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell,
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell?
Or in some hollow'd seat,

'Gainst which the big waves beat,

Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought,
Dark pow'r, with shudd'ring meek submitted Thought?
Be mine, to read the visions old,
Which thy awak'ning bards have told,
And, lest thou meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true;
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'eraw'd,
In that thrice hallow'd eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
The pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt, from fire, or fen,
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!

O thou whose spirit most possess'd
The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,

Teach me but once like him to feel;
cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee.




SAY, will no white-rob'd Son of Light,
Swift darting from his heav'nly height,

Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
Here wave his amber locks; unfold
His pinions cloth'd with downy gold;
Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?

And you, ye host of Saints, for ye have known.
Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,

Though now ye circle yon eternal throne, With harpings high of inexpressive praise,

Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with Mercy's beam this gath'ring cloud of Fate?

"Tis silence all. No Son of Light Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height:

No train of radiant Saints descend. "Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,

"If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind, "Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend."

So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound Burst from the centre of her burning throne:


Where aye she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd: A bright Sun clasps her adamantine zone.

So Truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear: With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear. "Attend, ye Sons of Men; attend, and say, "Does not enough of my refulgent ray "Break through the veil of your mortality? Say, does not Reason in this form descry Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass "The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace è

"Shall then your earth-born daughters vie "With me? Shall she, whose brightest eye

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"But emulates the di'mond's blaze,

"Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom, "Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume, "Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,

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