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ODE TO TRUTH.
Say, will no white-robod Son of Light,
Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
And you, ye host of Saints, for ye have known
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
she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd: A bright Sun clasps her adamantine zone.
So Truth proclaims : her awful voice I hear :
“ Attend, ye Sons of Men ; attend, and say,
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 ?
“ Shall then your earth-born daughters vie 6. With me?
Shall she, whose brightest eye “ 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,
“ Shall she be deem'd my rival ?. Shall a form “ Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,
“ Vie with these charms imperial ? The poor worm “ Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day
“ Shall pass, and she is gone; while I appear • Flush'd with the bloom of youth through Heav'n's eternal
year. & Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung, w Ere first these orbs in ether hung,
“ I shone amid the heav'nly throng; 66 These
beheld Creation's day, “ This voice began the choral lay, “ And taught archangels their triumphant song.
“ Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth, “ Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread,
“ Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, “ And Ocean heave on it's extended bed
“ Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky, 6. The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly.
Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace, “ Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face ;
And, as he rose, the high behest was given “ That I alone, of all the host of Heav'n, “ Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth : « Thus the Almighty spake : he spake and calld me Trutlı."
ODE TO FANCY.
O PARENT of each lovely muse,
O Nymph with loosely flowing hair,
Me, Goddess, by the right hand lead, Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy and white-rob’d Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth each ev'ning meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads, Where Echo walks steep hills among, Lisťning to the shepherd's song.
Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ: Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms and sigh! Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels and the house of wo, To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad night some Virgin comes, With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek; Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs, Where, to avoid cold winter's show'rs, The naked beggar shiv’ring lies, Wbile whistling tempests round her rise, And trembles lest the tott'ring wall Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre, For my heart glows with martial fire; I feel, I fcel, with sudden heat, My big tumultuous bosom beat! The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear; “ Give me another horse!" I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Whence is this rage ? Wbat spirit, say, To battle hurries me away? "Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the bills of slain,
O guide me from this horrid scene
When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws
O warm, enthusiastic Maid,
O hear our pray’r! O bither come