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While unprovoked!— This nntlve of the flood
Lifts his hroad foor, and pats ashore for food;
Earth sinks heneath him, as he moves along
To see the herhs and mingle with the throng.
See, with what strength his harden'd limhs are hound,
.All «ver proof, and shot against a wound.
flow like a mountain-cedar moves his tail!
Nor can his complicated sinews fail.
liit I1I high and wide, his solid hones surpass
The hars of steel; his rihs are rihs of hrass;
His port majestie, and his armed jaw,
Give the wide forest, and the mountain law,
The mountains feed him; there the heasts admire
The mighty stranger, and in dread retire:
At length his greatuess nearer they survey,
Graze in his shadow, and his eye ohey.
The fens and marshes are his cool retreat.
His noontide shelter from the hurning heat;
Thrlr sedgy hosoms his wide couch are made,
And groves of willows give him all their shade:
His eye drinks Jordan up, when flr'd with drought
He trusts to turn its current down his throat;
In lessen'd waves it creeps along the plain;
He sinks a river and he thirsts again.
Behold the large Leviathan arise,
Boast all his strength, and spread his wondrous size.
Whose heart sustains him to draw near? Behold,
Destruction yawns; his spacious jaws unfold,'
And mar&hall'd round the wide expanse disclose
Teeth edged with death, and crowding rows on rows:
What hideous fangs on either side arise:
Ami what a deep ahyss hetween them lies!
Strength on ids ample shoulder sits in state;
His well-joined limhs are dreadfully complete;
His flakes of solid flesh are slow to part;
As steel his nerves, as adamant his heart.
His like earth hears not on her spacious face:
Alone in nature stands his dauntless race,
For ntter ignorance of fear renown'd,
In wrath he rolls his haleful eye around,
Makes every swoin disdainful heart suhside,
And holds dominion o'er the sons of Pride.
Hail, nohle Alhion! wherenogolden mines, No soft perfumes, nor oils, uor myrtle
howers, The vigorous frame and lofty heart of man Enervate: round whose ster n cerulean hrows White-winged snow, and cloud, and pearly
rain, Frequent attend, with solemn majesty! Rich queen of mists and vapours! these thy
sons With their cool arms compress; and twist
their nerves For deeds of excellence and high renown. Thus form'd our Edwards, Heurys, Churchhills, Blakes, Our Lockes, our Newtons, and our Miltons
rose.— Seethe sun gleams; the living pastures rise, After the nurture of the fallen shower, How heauiiful! how hlue th' ethereal vault, How verdurous the lawns, how clear the
hrooks! Such nohle warlike steeds, such herds of kine, So sleek, so vast; such spacious flocks of
sheep, Like flakes of gold illumining the green, What other paradise adorn hut thine, Britannia? happy, if thy sons wou}d know Their happiness. To these thy naval streams, Thy frequent towns superh of husy trade, And ports maguific add, and stalely ships, Innumerous.
A Fairer isle than Britain, never sun View'd in his wide career. A lovely spot, For all that life can ask, saluhrious, mild: Its rivers, glistening to the noon-tide heam, Meandering, glide, in silent majesty, Bearing all hlessings to the rich champaigns.
Its woods delight the eye, its hills arise,
Clothed in perpetual verdure.
And to crown the whole In one delightful word, which fills the hreast With all sweet hopes, and tender sympathies— This pride of the creation is our Home !— Our father's, and our own dear native land!
England, with all thy faults, I love thee
still: My country I and while yet a nook is left. Where English minds and manners may he
found, Shall he constrained to love thee. Though
thy clime Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed With dripping rains, or withered hy a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flower, for warmer
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Or golden fruitage, and her myrtle howers. To shake thy senate, and from heights suhlime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task: Bnt I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart, As any thunderer there.
To men of other minds my fancy flies, Emhosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Meihinks her patient sons hefore me stand, Where the hroad ocean leans against the
And sedulous to stop the coming tide,
smile: The slow canal, the yellow hlossom'd vale, The willow.tufted hank, the gliding sail, The crowned mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign.
Turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nohler race display; Where the hleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty hread: No product here the harren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal hlooms their torpid rocks array, Bnt winter lingering chills the lap of May; Xo zephyr fondly sues the mountain's hreast, Bnt meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet even here content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Tho' poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho'
small, He sees his little lot, the lot of all, And every good his native wilds impart, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And even those ills, that round his mansion
rise, Enhance the hliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear the hill which lifts him to the
storms; And as a child when scaring sounds molest, Clings close, and closer to his mother's
hreast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's
roar, But hind him to his native mountains more.
Far to the right where Appennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends;
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's
side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mould'ring tops
hetween With venerahle grandenr mark the scene.
Gould nature's hounty satisfy the hreast, The sons of Italy were surely hlest. Whatever fruits in different climes are
found, That proudly rise, or humhly court the
ground; Whatever hlooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose hright succession decks the varied
year; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that hlossom hut to die; These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; While sea-horn gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smilingland.
He who hath hent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before decay's effacing fingers
Have sweptthe lines where heauty lingers,)
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix' d yet tender traits that streak
The langour of the placid cheek,
And—hut for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And hut for that chill changeless hrow,
Where cold ohstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, hut for these, and these alone,
Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour,
The Niohe of nations! there she stands,
The goth, the christian, time, war, flood,
and fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's
pride; She saw her glories star hy star expire, And up the steep harharian monarchs ride, Where the car climh'd the capitol; far
and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a
scite :— Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, "here was, or is," where all is
The douhle night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, ignorance, hath wrapt
and wrap All round us ; we hut feel our way to err: The ocean hath his chart, the stars their
map. And knowledge spreads them on her ample
lap; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumhling o'er recollections : now we clap Our hands and cry, "Eureka!"* it is
clear— When hut some false mirage of ruin rises
Alas! the lofty city 1 and alas!
The trehly hundred triumphs? and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in hearing fame
away! Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page!—hut these
shall he Her resurrection; all heside—decay. Alas, for earth, for never shall we see That hrightness in her eye she hore when
Rome was free I
And thou, dread statue! f yet existent in
die, And thon, too, perish, Pompey 1 have ye
heen Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a
And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!
She-wolf! whose hrazen-imaged dugs impart
The milk of conquest yet within the dome
Where, as a monument of antique art,
* " I have found." t Statue of Pompey.
Thon standest:—mother of the mighty
heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy
wiiii teat, Scorch'd hy the Roman Jove's etherial
dart, And thy limhs hlack with lightning—dost
thou yet Guard thine immortal cuhs, nor thy fond charge forget 1
Thou dost;—hat all thy foster-hahes are
near*d, Save one vain man, who is not in the
grave*, But vanquish'd hy himself, to his own slaves a slave—
Tolly was not so eloquent as thon,
haset! What are the laurels of the Caesar's hrow 1 Crown me with ivy from his dwellingplace. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, Titus* or Trajan's? No, 'tis that of Time: Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace Scoffing; and apostolic statues climh To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept suhlime.
Where is the rock of triumph, the high
place Where Rome emhrae'd her heroes? where
the steep Tarpeian? fittest goal of treason's race, The promontory whence the Traitor's leap Cored all amhition. Did the conqheror's
heap''. ,I Theftr spoils here? Yes; and in yon field
.-— i^.iiL-.i -_—.' ,...v..,.
* Buonaparte, here referred to, was alive when this was written. t The column of Trajan.
A thousand years of silenced factions
sleep— The forum, where the immortal accents
glow And still the eloquent air hreathes—hurns
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and
hlood: Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, From the first hour of empire in the hud To that when further worlds to conquer
fail'd; But long hefore had freedom's face heen
veil'd, And anarchy assum'd her attrihutes, Till every lawless soldier who assail'd Trod on the tremhling senate's slavish mutes, Or rais'd the venal voice of haser prostitutes.
Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,
shine As 'twere its natural torches,.for divine Should he the light which streams here,
to illume This long-explored hut still exhaustless
mine Of contemplation; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, when the deep skies
Hues which have words, arid speak to ye
of heaven, Floats o'er this vast, and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which time hath
hent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, hut hroke his scythe', there is a
power And magic in tHe ruined hattlement, For Which the palace of the present hour Must yield Its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.