'Tis filence 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:


the fits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd; A bright fun 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 thro' 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
With me? Shall she, whose brightest eye

But emulates the diamond's blaze,
Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,

Whofe 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 drofs, of mould'ring clay,
Vie with these charms imperial? The

poor worm

her contest vain. Life's little day Shall pass, and she is gone : while I appear Flush'd with the bloom of youth thro' Heav'n's eternal year.


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Know, Mortals, know, ere first ye sprung,
Ere first these orbs in æther hung,

I fhone amid the heav'nly throng;
These eyes 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 luftre spread,

Soft vernal fragrance clothe the Aow'ring carth,
And Ocean heave on its extended bed ;

Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky,
The tawny lion Atalk, 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 giv'n,

That I alone of all the hosts of heav'n
Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth:
Thus the Almighty spake; he spake and call'd me Truth:”



O PARENT of each lovely Mule,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built hrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
: But flowers and honey from the rock.

O Nymph,


O Nymph, with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
of pow?r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey

Thro' air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the desert, hail !
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midft falls of water you

'Midtt broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and graffy dales between,
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear’d,
Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature feems to fit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne :
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer! tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale ftill builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest :

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Then lay me by the haunted stream
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser thro'a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-foothing found !

Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crown'd'heads;
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Liftning to the fhepherd's song.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my penfive mind employ:
Hafte, Fancy, from these scenes of Folly
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and figh!
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of Woe,
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 feek;
Or to fome abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's showr's,


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The naked beggar fhiv'ring lies,
While whistling tempefts round her rise,
And trembles left the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
Por my heart glows with martial fire-
I feel, I feel, 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? What 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 hills of lain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign ;
Where mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead :
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With fullen joy surveys the ground,
And pointing to th' enfanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-fhield !

O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to fhun
The fervours of the mid-day fun;
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canft fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I fteal a kiss,

O 3


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