That hope, which once forbad thy tears to flow!
Meanwhile the kindred souls of every land,
(Howe'er divided in the fretful days
Of prejudice and error) mingled now,
In one selected never-jarring state,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, such the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our loss, they drop a pitying tear.
But cease, presumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy sphere, that binds thee down:
"Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes.-
Scenes, that our gross ideas groveling cast
Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb.
Forgive, immortal Shade! if aught from earth,
From dust low-warbled, to those groves can rise,
Where flows celestial harmony, forgive
This fond superfluous verse. With deep-felt voice,
On every heart impress'd, thy deeds themselves
Attest thy praise. Thy praise the widow's sighs
And orphan's tears embalm. The good, the bad,
The sons of justice and the sons of strife,
All who or freedom or who interest prize,
A deep-divided nation's parties all,
Conspire to swell thy spotless praise to Heaven.
Glad Heaven receives it, and seraphic lyres
With songs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires.
The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling Nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her to hymn
Whatever good and excellent she forms.
EPITAPH ON MISS STANLEY.
HERE, Stanley, rest! escaped this mortal strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain,
And sternly try thee with a year of pain ;
No more sweet Patience, feigning oft relief,
Lights thy sick eye, to cheat a parent's grief:
With tender art to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own:
Now well-earn'd peace is thine, and bliss sincere:
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!
O born to bloom, then sink beneath the storm;
To show us Virtue in her fairest form;
To show us artless Reason's moral reign,
What boastful Science arrogates in vain;
The' obedient passions knowing each their part;
Calm light the head, and harmony the heart!
Yes, we must follow soon, will glad obey; When a few suns have roll'd their cares away, Tired with vain life, will close the willing eye: 'Tis the great birthright of mankind to die. Bless'd be the bark! that wafts us to the shore, Where death-divided friends shall part no more: To join thee there, here with thy dust repose, Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.
A PARAPHRASE
ON THE LATTER PART OF THE SIXTH CHAPTER OF
ST. MATTHEW.
WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear;
While all my warring passions are at strife,
O, let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt His doctrine did impart,
And thus He raised from earth the drooping heart.
'Think not, when all your scanty stores afford
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While, on the roof, the howling tempest bears;
What further shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall clothe these shivering limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed?
'Behold! and look away your low despairSee the light tenants of the barren air: To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong, Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song; Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye On the least wing that flits along the sky. To him they sing, when Spring renews the plain; To him they cry, in Winter's pinching reign; Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain ; He hears the gay, and the distressful call, And with unsparing bounty fills them all.
• Observe the rising lily's snowy grace, Observe the various vegetable race;
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow, Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king so shining! or what queen so fair!
If ceaseless thus the fowls of Heaven he feeds,
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads:
Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say?
Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?'
ETHERIAL race, inhabitants of air,
Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,
And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid, With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid, Who died for love, those sweet complainings part. But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,
On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; Or he, the sacred Bard1, who sat alone
In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their
And to such sadly solemn notes are strung
Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.
Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,
Through Heaven's high dome their awful anthem
Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire
To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.
Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,
Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the
string,
Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd, For till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.
HAIL, mildly-pleasing Solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herds of fools and villains fly.
Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.
A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapp'd in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky;
A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain.
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hertford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long-withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rivall'd nightingale.
Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born;
And while meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
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