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Ixion or the Titan :or the quick
Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic,
To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic ;
Or those in philosophic councils met,
Who thought to pay some interest for the debt
They owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation,
By giving a faint foretaste of damnation
To Shakspeare, Sidney, Spenser, and the rest
Who inade our land an island of the blest,
When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire
On Freedom's hearth, grew diin with Empire :-
With thumb-screws, wheels, with tooth and spike

and jag,
With fishes found under the utmost crag
Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles,
Where to the sky the rude sea seldom smiles
Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn
When the exulting elements in scorn,
Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay
Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey,
As panthers sleep and other strange and dread
Magical forms the brick floor overspread-
Proteus transformed to metal did not make
More figures, or more strange; nor did he take
Such shapes of unintelligible brass,
Or heap himself in such a horrid mass
Of tin and iron not to be understood,
And forms of unimaginable wood,
To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood :
Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved

blocks,

The elements of what will stand the shocks
Of wave and wind and time.—Upon the table
More knacks and quips there be than I am able
To catalogize in this verse of mine :
A pretty bowl of wood—not full of wine,
But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drink
When at their subterranean toil they swivk,
Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who
Reply to them in lava-cry, halloo !
And call out to the cities o'er their head,-
Roofs, towns, and shrines, the dying and the
dead,

[quaff
Crash through the chinks of earth—and then all
Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh.
This quicksilver no gnome has drunk-within
The walnut-bowl it lies, veinèd and thin,
In colour like the wake of light that stains
The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon

rains The inmost shower of its white fire—the breeze Is still-blue heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver-for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhood—I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat, A hollow screw with cogs—Henry will know The thing I mean, and laugh at me,--if so He fears not I should do more mischief.—Next Lie bills and calculations much perplext, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint

Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.
Then comes a range of mathematical
Instruments, for plans nautical and statical ;
A heap of rosin ; a green broken glass
With ink in it;-a china

cup

that was What it will never be again, I think, A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink The liquor doctors rail at—and which I Will quafl in spite of them and when we die We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea, And cry out,-heads or tails ? where'er we be. Near that a dusty paint-box, some old hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,—disentangle them who may. Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie, And some odd volumes of old chemistry. Near them a most inexplicable thing, With lead in the middle-I’m conjecturing How to make Henry understand ;-but-no, I'll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo, This secret in the pregnant womb of time, Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme.

And here like some weird Archimage sit I,
Plotting dark spells and devilish enginery,
The self impelling steam-wheels of the mind,
Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind

The gentle spirit of our meek reviews
Into a powdery foam of salt abuse,
Ruffling the ocean of their self-content:-
I sit—and smile or sigh as is my bent,
But not for them-Libeccio rushes round
With an inconstant and an idle sound,
I heed him more than them—the thunder-smoke
Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak
Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare ;
The ripe corn under the undulating air
Undulates like an ocean ;-and the vines
Are trembling wide in all their trellised lines ;-
The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill
The empty pauses of the blast ;—the hill
Looks hoary through the white electric rain,
And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain
The interrupted thunder howls ; above
One chasm of heaven smiles, like the eye

of love On the unquiet world ;-while such things are, How could one worth your friendship heed the

war

Of worms ? the shriek of the world's carrion jaye, Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise? You are not here! The quaint witch Memory

sees

Iu vacant chairs your absent images,
And points where once you sat, and now should be,
But are not.—I demand if ever we
Shall meer as then we met ;—and she replies,
Veiling in awe her second-sighted

* I know the past alone_but summon home
My sister Hope, she speaks of all to come.”
But I, an old diviner, who know well
Every false verse of that sweet oracle,
Turned to the sad enchantress once again,
And sought a respite from my gentle pain,
In acting every passage o'er and o'er
Of our communion :-how on the sea-shore
We watched the ocean and the sky together,
Under the roof of blue Italian weather ;
How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm,
And felt the transverse lightning linger warm
Upon my

cheek;

and how we often made Treats for each other, where good will outweighed The frugal luxury of our country cheer, As it well might, were it less firm and clear Than ours must ever be ;--and how we spun A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun Of this familiar life, which seems to be But is not,-or is but quaint mockery Of all we would believe; or sadly blame The jarring and inexplicable frame Of this wrong world ;-and then anatomize The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes Were closed in distant years ;—or widely guess The issue of the earth's great business, When we shall be as we no longer are ; Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not; or how You listened to some interrupted How

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