This earth, so blind and base, What is it but a point, a point how mean Where brighter may be seen, All that will be, and is, and e'er hath been. The harmony divine Of yon eternal splendours, who can see With motion just, though free, How still they vary, and yet still agree ! How rolls o'er azure plains The moon her silver wheel, and with her move The light whence wisdom rains, And, others all above, The brightest Star of Heaven, the Star of Love! Rolls red and angry on his separate way, With more benignant sway, How on the summit high Wheels Saturn, father of the age of gold ; Their track whole myriads hold, Who, who can lift his eye To these, and still the sordid earth hold dear, And not with ardour sigh To break what holds us here, Soul-prisoned, banished from that happy sphere? There dwells Contentment sweet, There reigns ambrosial Peace-eternal crown'd, On rich and lofty seat; There sacred Love is found, With Glory and Delight encircled round. There boundless Beauty shews Her perfect pride; there shines unspotted light, That still unwearied glows, That never sinks to night; There Spring eternal ever meets the sight. Oh meads more blest than earth! Pastures of true refreshment, ne'er to cease! Oh mines of richest worth! Oh fields of sweet increase! Oh dear retiring vales of pure celestial Peace! T. W. PEACE AND WAR. How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh That wraps the moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, A metaphor of peace-all form a scene Ah! whence that glare That fires the arch of heaven ?-That dark red smoke The ceaseless clangour, and the rush of men Comes shuddering on the blast; or the faint moan, The grey morn Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous smoke Before the icy wind slow rolls away, And the bright beams of frosty morning dance Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood Even to the forest's depth, and scatter'd arms, And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path Of the outsallying victors: far behind, Black ashes note where their proud city stood. Within yon forest is a gloomy glen Each tree which guards its darkness from the day Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. SHELLEY. REFLECTIONS ON SEEING THE GREAT NORTHERN LIGHTS. Now day conceals her face, and darkness fills The abyss of heaven appears-the stars are kindling round, Just as a sand whelmed in the infinite sea, A mote by midnight's maddened whirlwind driven, And we are told by wisdom's knowing ones, That there are multitudes of worlds like this; That yon unnumber'd lamps are glowing suns, And each a link amidst creation is : There dwells the Godhead too-there shines his wisdom's essence, His everlasting strength-his all-supporting presence. Where are thy secret laws, O Nature, where? Come now and tell us, whence, and where, and why, Is there some vast, some hidden magazine, Where the gross darkness flames of fire supplies? Some phosphoric fabric, which the mountains screen, Whose clouds of light above those mountains rise? When the winds rattle loud around the foaming sea, And lift the waves to heaven in thundering revelry? Thou knowest not! 'tis doubt, 'tis darkness all ; Even here on earth our thoughts benighted stray, And all is mystery through this worldly ball. Who then can reach or read yon milky way? Creation's heights and depths are all unknown-untrod; Who then shall say how vast, how great creation's GOD. BOWRING'S Russian Anthology. TO HORROR. Dark HORROR!-bear me where the field of fight Save when at times is heard the glutted Raven's scream. With thee, fierce Genius! let me trace their way, And hear at times the deep heart-groan Of some poor sufferer left to die alone, His sore wounds smarting with the winds of night; And we will pause, where, on the wild, The Mother to her frozen breast, On the heap'd snows reclining, clasps her child, Black HORROR! speed we to the bed of Death, Struggles with his last breath; Then to his wildly-starting eyes The phantoms of the murder'd rise; Their groans for vengeance, and the Demon's yell, Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew, SOUTHEY. |