Of youthful ardour to eternal chase.
Dreams hang on every leaf; unearthly forms
Glide through the gloom; and mystic visions swim
Before the cheated sense. Athwart the mists,
Far into vacant space, huge shadows stretch,
And seem realities; while things of life,
Obvious to sight and touch, all glowing round,
Fade to the hue of shadows.-Scruples here,
With filmy net, most like th' autumnal webs
Of floating gossamer, arrest the foot
Of generous enterprise; and palsy hope
And fair ambition with the chilling touch
Of sickly hesitation and blank fear.
Nor seldom Indolence these lawns among
Fixes her turf-built seat; and wears the garb
Of deep philosophy, and museful sits,

In dreamy twilight of the vacant mind,

Soothed by the whispering shade; for soothing soft
The shades; and vistas lengthening into air,
With moonbeam rainbows tinted.-Here each mind
Of finer mould acute and delicate,
In its high progress to eternal truth
Rests for a space, in fairy bowers entranced;
And loves the soften'd light and tender gloom;
And, pamper'd with most unsubstantial food,
Looks down indignant on the grosser world,
And matters cumbrous shaping. Youth beloved
Of Science of the Muse beloved,-not here,
Not in the maze of metaphysic lore,
Build thou thy place of resting! lightly tread
The dangerous ground, on noble aims intent;
And be this Circe of the studious cell

Enjoy'd but still subservient. Active scenes
Shall soon with healthful spirit brace thy mind;
And fair exertion for bright fame sustain'd,

For friends, for country chase each spleen-fed fog That blots the wide creation.

Now Heaven conduct thee with a parent's love!

THE UNKNOWN GOD.

To learned Athens, led by fame,

As once the man of Tarsus came,

With pity and surprise,

Midst idol altars as he stood,

O'er sculptured marble, brass, and wood,

He roll'd his awful eyes.

But one, apart, his notice caught,

That seem'd with higher meaning fraught, Graved on the wounded stone;

Nor form nor name was there express'd; Deep reverence fill'd the musing breast, Perusing, "To the God unknown."

Age after age has roll'd away,
Altars and thrones have felt decay,
Sages and saints have risen;
And, like a giant roused from sleep,
Man has explored the pathless deep,

And lightnings snatch'd from heaven.

And many a shrine in dust is laid, Where kneeling nations homage paid, By rock, or fount, or grove;

Ephesian Dian sees no more
Her workmen fuse the silver ore,
Nor Capitolian Jove.

E'en Salem's hallow'd courts have ceased
With solemn pomps her tribes to feast,
No more the victim bleeds;
To censers fill'd with rare perfumes,
And vestments from Egyptian looms,
A purer rite succeeds.

Yet still, where'er presumptuous man
His Maker's essence strives to scan,
And lifts his feeble hands,
Though saint and sage their powers unite,
To fathom that abyss of light,

Ah! still that altar stands.

ODE TO REMORSE.

DREAD offspring of the holy light within,
Offspring of Conscience and of Sin,
Stern as thine awful sire, and fraught with wo,
From bitter springs thy mother taught to flow,-
Remorse! To man alone 'tis given

Of all on earth, or all in heaven,
To wretched man thy bitter cup to drain,
Feel thy awakening stings, and taste thy whole-
some pain.

Midst Eden's blissful bowers,

And amaranthine flowers,

Thy birth portentous dimm'd the orient day,
What time our hapless sire,
O'ercome by fond desire,

The high command presumed to disobey;

Then didst thou rear thy snaky crest,

And raise thy scorpion lash to tear the guilty breast:

And never, since that fatal hour,

May man, of woman born, expect t' escape thy

power.

Thy goading stings the branded Cain Cross th' untrodden desert drove, Ere from his cradling home and native plain Domestic man had learnt to rove.

By gloomy shade or lonely flood
Of vast primeval solitude,
Thy step his hurried steps pursued,
Thy voice awoke his conscious fears,
For ever sounding in his ears

A father's curse, a brother's blood,
Till life was misery too great to bear,
And torturing thought was lost in sullen, dumb
despair.

The king who sat on Judah's throne,

By guilty love to murder wrought,

Was taught thy searching power to own, When, sent of Heaven, the seer his royal presence

sought.

As, wrapt in artful phrase, with sorrow feign'd,
He told of helpless, meek distress,
And wrongs that sought from power redress
The pity-moving tale his ear obtain'd.

And O that look, that soft upbraiding look!
A thousand cutting, tender things it spoke,-
The sword so lately drawn was not so keen,-
Which, as the injured Master turn'd him round,
In the strange solemn scene,

And the shrill clarion gave th' appointed sound,
Pierced sudden through the reins,
Awakening all thy pains,

And drew a silent shower of bitter tears Down Peter's blushing cheek, late pale with coward fears.

Cruel Remorse! where Youth and Pleasure sport,

And thoughtless Folly keeps her court,Crouching midst rosy bowers thou lurk'st unseen; Slumbering the festal hours away, While Youth disports in that enchanting scene; Till on some fated day

Thou with a tiger-spring dost leap upon thy prey, And tear his helpless breast, o'erwhelm'd, with wild dismay.

Mark that poor wretch with clasped hands! Pale o'er his parent's grave he stands,The grave by his ingratitude prepared ; Ah then, where'er he rests his head, On roses pillow'd or the softest down,

Though festal wreaths his temples crown, He well might envy Guatimozin's bed,

With burning coals and sulphur spread, And with less agony his torturing hour have shared.

For Thou art by to point the keen reproach;

Thou draw'st the curtains of his nightly couch, Bring'st back the reverend face with tears bedew'd,

That o'er his follies yearn'd;
The warnings oft in vain renew'd,
The looks of anguish and of love,

His stubborn breast that failed to move, When in the scorner's chair he sat, and wholesome counsel spurn'd.

Lives there a man whose labouring breast
Is with some dark and guilty secret prest,
Who hides within its inmost fold
Strange crimes to mortal ear untold?
In vain to sad Chartreuse he flies.

Midst savage rocks and cloisters dim and drear,
And there to shun thee tries:

In vain untold his crime to mortal ear, Silence and whisper'd sounds but make thy voice

more clear.

Lo. where the cowled monk with frantic rage Lifts high the sounding scourge, his bleeding

shoulders smites!

See o'er the bleeding corse of her he loved,
The jealous murderer bends unmoved,
Trembling with rage, his livid lips express
His frantic passion's wild and rash excess.
O God, she's innocent!-transfixt he stands,
Pierced through with shafts from thine avenging
hands;

Down his pale cheek no tear will flow,
Nor can he shun, nor can he bear, his wo.

'Twas phantoms summon'd by thy power Round Richard's couch at midnight hour, That scared the tyrant from unblest repose; With frantic haste, "To horse! to horse!" he cries, While on his crowned brow cold sweat-drops rise And fancied spears his spear oppose; But not the swiftest steed can bear away From thy firm grasp thine agonizing prey, Thou wast the fiend, and thou alone, That stood'st by Beaufort's mitred head, With upright hair and visage ghastly pale: Thy terrors shook his dying bed,

Past crimes and blood his sinking heart assail, His hands are clasp'd,-hark to that hollow groan! See how his glazed, dim eye-balls wildly roll, "Tis not dissolving Nature's pains; that pang is of the soul.

Where guilty souls are doom'd to dwell,
"Tis thou that makest their fiercest hell,
The vulture thou that on their liver feeds,
As rise to view their past unhallow'd deeds;
With thee condemn'd to stay,
Till time has roll'd away

Long eras of uncounted years,

And every stain is wash'd in soft repentant tears.

Servant of God-but unbeloved-proceed,
For thou must live and ply thy scorpion scourge:
Thy sharp upbraidings urge

Against th' unrighteous deed,

Till thine accursed mother shall expire, And a new world spring forth from renovating fire

O! when the glare of day is fled,

And calm, beneath the evening star, Reflection leans her pensive head, And calls the passions to her solemn bar; Reviews the censure rash, the hasty word, The purposed act too long deferr'd, Of time the wasted treasures lent, And fair occasions lost, and golden hours mispent:

When anxious Memory numbers o'er Each offer'd prize we failed to seize ; Or friends laid low, whom now no more Our fondest love can serve or please, And thou, dread power! bring'st back, in terrors drest,

Weary his days and joyless are his nights,
His naked feet the flinty pavement tears,
His knee at every shrine the marble wears ;-

O! in that hour be mine to know, While fast the silent sorrows flow,

And wisdom cherishes the wholesome pain,

No heavier guilt, no deeper stain, Than tears of meek contrition may atone, Shed at the mercy-seat of Heaven's eternal throne.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

YES, Britain mourns, as with electric touch,
For youth, for love, for happiness destroy'd,
Her universal population melts

In grief spontaneous, and hard hearts are moved,
And rough, unpolish'd natures learn to feel
For those they envied, levell'd in the dust
By Fate's impartial stroke; and pulpits sound
With vanity and wo to earthly goods,

And urge and dry the tear.-Yet one there is
Who midst this general burst of grief remains
In strange tranquillity; whom not the stir
And long-drawn murmurs of the gathering crowd,
That by his very windows trail the pomp
Of hearse, and blazon'd arms, and long array
Of sad funereal rites, nor the loud groans
And deep-felt anguish of a husband's heart,
Can move to mingle with this flood one tear:
In careless apathy, perhaps in mirth,

He wears the day. Yet is he near in blood,
The very stem on which this blossom grew,
And at his knees she fondled in the charm
And grace spontaneous which alone belongs
To untaught infancy:-Yet, O forbear!

Nor deem him hard of heart; for awful, struck
By Heaven's severest visitation, sad,
Like a scathed oak amidst the forest trees,
Lonely he stands ;-leaves bud, and shoot, and fall,
He holds no sympathy with living nature
Or time's incessant change. Then in this hour,
While pensive thought is busy with the woes
And restless change of poor humanity,

Think then, O think of him, and breathe one prayer,

From the full tide of sorrow spare one tear,
For him who does not weep!

THE WAKE OF THE KING OF SPAIN.

ARRAY'D in robes of regal state,
But stiff and cold the monarch sate;
In gorgeous vests, his chair beside,
Stood prince and peer, the nation's pride;
And paladin and high-born dame
Their place amid the circle claim:
And wands of office lifted high,
And arms and blazon'd heraldry,-
All mute like marble statues stand,
Nor raise the eye, nor move the hand :
No voice, no sound to stir the air,
The silence of the grave is there.

The kings of Spain for nine days after death are placed sitting in robes of state with their attendants around them, and solemnly summoned by the proper officers to their meals and their amusements, as if living.

1

Again the sounding portals shake,
And speaks again the voice that spake.
"The sun is high, the sun is warm,
Forth to the field the gallants swarm,
The foaming bit the courser champs,
His hoof the turf impatient stamps ;
Light on their steeds the hunters spring,
The sun is high-Come forth, O king!"
Along these melancholy walls

In vain the voice of pleasure calls:
The horse may neigh, and bay the hound,-
He hears no more; his sleep is sound.
Retire;-once more the portals close;
Leave, leave him to his dread repose.

HYMNS. HYMN I.

JEHOVAH reigns: let every nation hear,
And at his footstool bow with holy fear;
Let heaven's high arches echo with his name,
And the wide peopled earth his praise proclaim,
Then send it down to hell's deep glooms resound-
ing,
[ing.
Through all her caves in dreadful murmurs sound-

He rules with wide and absolute command
O'er the broad ocean and the steadfast land:
Jehovah reigns, unbounded, and alone,
And all creation hangs beneath his throne
He reigns alone; let no inferior nature
Usurp, or share the throne of the Creator.

He saw the struggling beams of infant light
Shoot through the massy gloom of ancient night;
His spirit hush'd the elemental strife,

And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life: Seasons and months began their long procession, And measured o'er the year in bright succession.

The joyful sun sprung up th' ethereal way, Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay; And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light Superior o'er the dusky brow of night; Ten thousand glittering lamps the skies adorning, Numerous as dew-drops from the womb of morning

Earth's blooming face with rising flowers he drest, And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast; Then from the hollow of his hand he pours The circling water round her winding shores, The new-born world in their cool arms embracing And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing.

At length she rose complete in finish'd pride, All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride; Fresh with untarnish'd lustre as she stood, Her Maker bless'd his work, and call'd it good The morning stars with joyful acclamation Exulting sang, and hail'd the new creation

Yet this fair world, the creature of a day, Though built by God's right hand, must pass

away;

And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things, The fate of empires, and the pride of kings: Eternal night shall veil their proudest story, And drop the curtain o'er all human glory.

The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest, Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest; His golden urn shall broke and useless lie, Amidst the common ruins of the sky; The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion, And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean

But fix'd, O God! for ever stands thy throne;
Jehovah reigns, a universe alone;

Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame,
Collected, or diffused, is still the same.

He dwells within his own unfathom'd essence,
And fills all space with his unbounded presence.

Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall;

Should thine alter'd hand restrain The early and the latter rain; Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy:

Yet to thee my soul should raise Grateful vows, and solemn praise; And, when every blessing's flown, Love thee-for thyself alone.

HYMN III.

FOR EASTER SUNDAY.

AGAIN the Lord of life and light
Awakes the kindling ray;
Unseals the eyelids of the morn,
And pours increasing day.

O what a night was that, which wrapt
The heathen world in gloom!
O what a sun which broke this day,
Triumphant from the tomb!

This day be grateful homage paid,
And loud hosannas sung;
Let gladness dwell in every heart,
And praise on every tongue.

Ten thousand differing lips shall join
To hail this welcome morn,
Which scatters blessings from its wings,
To nations yet unborn.

Jesus the friend of human kind,
With strong compassion moved,
Descended like a pitying God,
To save the souls he loved.

The powers of darkness leagued in vain
To bind his soul in death;
He shook their kingdom when he fell,
With his expiring breath.

Not long the toils of hell could keep
The hope of Judah's line;
Corruption never could take hold
On aught so much divine.

And now his conquering chariot wheels Ascend the lofty skies;

While broke beneath his powerful cross, Death's iron sceptre lies

Exalted high at God's right hand,
The Lord of all below,

Through him is pardoning love dispensed,

And boundless blessings flow.

And still for erring, guilty man,
A brother's pity flows;
And still his bleeding heart is touch'd
With memory of our woes.

To thee, my Saviour and my King,
Glad homage let me give;
And stand prepared like thee to die
With thee that I may live.

HYMN IV.

'BEHOLD, where breathing love divine,
Our dying Master stands!

His weeping followers gathering round,
Receive his last commands.

From that mild teacher's parting lips
What tender accents fell!
The gentle precept which he gave,
Became its author well.

"Blest is the man whose softening heart
Feels all another's pain;

To whom the supplicating eye
Was never raised in vain.

Whose breast expands with generous warmth
A stranger's woes to feel;

And bleeds in pity o'er the wound
He wants the power to heal.

"He spreads his kind supporting arms
To every child of grief;

His secret bounty largely flows,

AWAKE, my soul! lift up thine
eyes,
See where thy foes against thee rise,
In long array, a numerous host;
Awake, my soul! or thou art lost.
Here giant Danger threatening stands,
Mustering his pale terrific bands;
There Pleasure's silken banners spread,
And willing souls are captive led.
See where rebellious passions rage,
And fierce desires and lusts engage;
The meanest foe of all the train
Has thousands and ten thousands slain.
Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground,
Perils and snares beset thee round;
Beware of all, guard every part,
But most, the traitor in thy heart.

"Come then, my soul, now learn to wield The weight of thine immortal shield;" Put on the armour from above

Of heavenly truth and heavenly love.

The terror and the charm repel,

And powers of earth, and powers of hell; The Man of Calvary triumph'd here; Why should his faithful followers fear?

HYMN VI.

PIOUS FRIENDSHIP

How blest the sacred tie that binds

In union sweet according minds!

How swift the heavenly course they run,
Whose hearts, whose faith, whose hopes are one

To each, the soul of each how dear,
What jealous love, what holy fear!
How doth the generous flame within
Refine from earth and cleanse from sin!

Their streaming tears together flow
For human guilt and mortal wo;
Their ardent prayers together rise,
Like mingling flames in sacrifice.

Together both they seek the place
Where God reveals his awful face;
How high, how strong, their raptures swell,
There's none but kindred souls can tell.
Nor shall the glowing flame expire
When nature droops her sickening fire;
Then shall they meet in realms above,
A heaven of joy-because of love.

HYMN VII.

"Come unto me all that are weary and heavy laden, and

I will give you rest.”

COME, said Jesus' sacred voice,

Come and make my paths your choice;

I will guide you to your home;

Weary pilgrim, hither come!

Thou, who houseless, sole, forlorn,

Long hast borne the proud world's scorn,
Long hast roam'd the barren waste,-
Weary pilgrim, hither haste!

Ye, who toss'd on beds of pain,
Seek for ease, but seek in vain,
Ye whose swoll'n and sleepless eyes
Watch to see the morning rise;

Ye, by fiercer anguish torn,
In remorse for guilt who mourn;
Here repose your heavy care,
A wounded spirit who can bear!

Sinner, come! for here is found
Balm that flows for every wound :
Peace, that ever shall endure,
Rest eternal, sacred, sure.

HYMN VIII.

"The world is not their friend, nor the world's law."

Lo where a crowd of pilgrims toil

Yon craggy steeps among!

Strange their attire, and strange their mien,
As wild they press along.

Their eyes with bitter streaming tears
Now bent towards the ground,
Now rapt, to heaven their looks they raise,
And bursts of song resound.