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The stream was black, it sounded deep
As it rushed the rocks between, It offer'd well, for madness fired
The breast of Gondoline,
The maid was seen no more.-But oft
Her ghost is known to glide, At midnight's silent, solemn hour,
Along the ocean's side.
WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS,
In the Morning, before Day-break.
YE many-twinkling stars, who yet do hold
Your brilliant places in the sable vault
Of night's dominions ! - Planets, and central orbs
Of other systems !--big as the burning sun,
Which lights this nether globe,-yet to our eye,
Small as the glow-worm's lamp!-To you I raise
My lowly orisons, while all bewilder’d,
My vision strays o'er your etherial hosts,
Too vast, too boundless, for our narrow mind,
Warp'd with low prejudices, to infold,
And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring ;
Through ye, I raise my solemn thoughts to him!
The mighty founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator! Him! who now sublime
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude
Of bouudless space, above the rolling spheres
Sits on his silent throne, and meditates.
The angelic hosts in their inferior Heaven,
Hymn to their golden harps his praise sublinie,
Repeating loud, “The Lord our God is great,”
In varied harmonies.—The glorious sounds
Roll o’er the air serene—The Æolian spheres,
Harping along their viewless boundaries,
Catch the full note, and cry, “The Lord is great
Responding to the Seraphim.-O'er all,
From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne
Till the whole universe is full of Him.
Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear
And thrills ny inmost soul. It bids me smile
On the vain world, ar.d all its bustling cares,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, What even are kings, when balanced in the scale
Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!
Thou, the dread author of these wond’rous works!
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,
One look of kind benevolence ?—Thou canst :
For thou art full of universal love,
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me, as to the proud,
The pageant insects, of a glittering hour.
Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,
How insignificant do all the joys,
The gaudes, and honours of the world appear !
How vain ambition !-Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatch'd the slow-pac'd night?—Why on the page,
The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay
The loss of health? or can the hope of glory,
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,
Cool, even now, my feverish, aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?
Say, foolish one can that unbodied Fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness,
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave?
Give a new zest to bliss? or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?
Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires !
How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God!
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling.--All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.
SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER, AT THE GRAVE OF
Occasioned by a Situation in a Romance.
MARY, the moon is sleeping on thy grave,
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling,
The big tear in his eye.—Mary awake,
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight
On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low,
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale,
Thy whisper'd tale, of comfort, and of love,
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul,
And cheer his breaking heart.-Come, as thou didst,
When o'er the barren moors the night-wind howl'd,
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne
Of the startled night.--0! then, as lone reclining,
I listen'd sadly, to the dismal storm,
Thou, on the lambent lightnings wild careering
Didst strike my moody eye:-dead pale thou wert,
Yet passing lovely.--Thou didst smile upon me,
And oh! thy voice it rose so`niusical,
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm,
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave,
And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd
Sunk on his rocking throne, to still repose,
Lock'd in the armis of silence.
Spirit of her!
My only love !-O! now again arise,
And let once more thine äery accents fall
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm,
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling
On the still air, the distant waterfall
Mingles its melody;--and high, above,
The pensive empress of the solemn night,
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds,
Shews her chaste face, in the meridian sky.
No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll
Dare now assemble at their mystic revels.
It is a night, when from their primrose beds,
The gentle ghosts of injur'd innocents,
Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze,
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch,
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul.
The spirit of my love might now awake,
And hold its custom'd converse.
Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave,
And calls upon thy name. The breeze that blows