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Of general devastation, millions find

One common grave; not even a widow left
To wail her sons: the house, that should protect,
Entombs its master; and the faithless plain,
If there he flies for help, with sudden yawn

Starts from beneath him. Shield me, gracious Heaven,
O snatch me from destruction? If this Globe,

This solid Globe, which thine own hand hath made
So firm and sure, if this my steps betray;

If my own mother Earth, from whence I sprung,
Rise up with rage unnatural to devour
Her wretched offspring, whither shall I fly?
Where look for succour? Where but up to thee,
Almighty Father? Save, O save thy suppliant
From horrors such as these? At thy good time
Let death approach; I reck not let him but come
In genuine form, not with thy vengeance arm'd,
Too much for man to bear. O rather lend
Thy kindly aid to mitigate his stroke;
And at that hour when all aghast I stand
(A trembling candidate for thy compassion)
On this world's brink, and look into the next;
When my soul, starting from the dark unknown,
Casts back a wishful look, and fondly clings
To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd
From this fair scene, from all her custom'd joys,
And all the lovely relatives of life,

Then shed thy comforts o'er me, then put on
The gentlest of thy looks. Let no dark crimes,
In all their hideous forms then starting up,
Plant themselves round my couch in grim array,
Amd stab my bleeding heart with two-edged torture,

Sense of past guilt, and dread of future wo.
Far be the ghastly crew! And in their stead
Let cheerful Memory from her purest cells
Lead forth a goodly train of Virtues fair,
Cherish'd in earliest youth, now paying back
With tenfold usury the pious care,

And pouring o'er my wounds the heavenly balm
Of conscious innocence. But chiefly, Thou,
Whom soft-ey'd Pity once led down from Heav'n,
To bleed for man, to teach him how to live,
And, oh! still harder lesson! how to die:
Disdain not Thou to smooth the restless bed
Of Sickness and of Pain. Forgive the tear
That feeble Nature drops, calm all her fears,
Wake all her hopes, and animate her faith,
Till my wrapt soul anticipating Heaven,
Bursts from the thraldom of incumbering clay,
And on the wing of Ecstacy upborne,
Springs into Liberty, and Light, and Life.


WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, wrapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds, his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
"Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong,

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all the song.
And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung-but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose,

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down.

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo.
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien;

While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from

his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,
Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,
And from her wild sequester'd seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O! how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd


Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.

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