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To worship at this mountain, countless tribes,
With numbers yearly growing, shall be found
Seeking their sepulchre, to learn their names,
To hear the story of their fate, and speak
One word of pity at the awful tale.

Sleep, then, in peace; unwonted death was yours;
Yours an unwonted monument; and yours
Funereal pomp that kings have never known.
Here, in the embosomed depth

Of these your native mountains, sleep in peace,
Till the last tempest rend the mount again,
And call you from its bosom into light.


THEN reverently we bared our heads, and stood;
And from that holy bard, whose sightless eye
Beheld the wonders of the Invisible,
We raised the hymn so worthy Paradise,
In its pure early worship. With the words
I trust our hearts rose up; the morning wind
Bore them, like incense, upward, and there seemed
A soul of deep devotion breathed abroad

On all the things we saw they heard the call,
The eloquent call, of Milton and of God,

And uttered praise. The sun and clouds in heaven
Heard, as they rose above us, and replied;
The lake responded with her thousand isles;
The mountains, that encompassed us around,
Near and more distant, seemed to bow assent;
The birds joined harmony; the lowing kine,
The waving trees, the lowly herb beneath
Our feet, with burden of rich fruit, and last
The scattered hamlets, whose ascending smokes
Showed human life awaking to the day,-
All seemed to hear and join the act of praise.
So to our hearts it seemed, so full, so warm.
So loud, the burst of holy praise rung forth
In words that reach and rouse the inmost soul

Of nature, as of man, -the general soul
That fills and vivifies whate'er exists.

'Tis well to worship where the pomp of man
Intrudes not. So infirm are we, so bound
In chains of sense, that crowded chapels, throngs
Of dressed adorers, bursts of choral song,
The formal, eloquent routine of praise,

Sometimes excite, sometimes distract, confound,
Or dissipate the soul.

"Tis well to know that piety

Draws its best nutriment from solitude,
Withdrawn from man, in secret intercourse
With man's Creator; on the mountain-top,
Beside the waterfall, within the dark
And silent forest, on the midnight bed,
Within the chambers of the secret mind,

Where no eye pierces, no ear listens, save
That of the indwelling spirit, which pervades,
And moves, and blesses all.
Then worship grows
A holy, heavenly thing; th' unfettered soul,
Emancipate from earth, no more disturbed
With others' thoughts, nor bound to tread
The path by others signified, springs free,
Exalted, spiritualized, and carries back.

To earth and life a fragrance and a strength
That earth gives not, and that prepares for heaven.
Such Sabbath is not lost; and, from the mount
When we descended, with the little flock

That gathers in an humble, upper room,

Like that, perchance, wherein Paul preached, we, too, Were found. A touching sight, thus far from home, Amid the wild hills, to behold a few,

Summoned at call of Him who rules the earth

As King, and numbers millions for his own,
In every age and nation, bending down
In prayer, and listening to the word of life;-
A fragment of the universal church;

Pondering upon the thoughts which make the joy
Of spirits in heaven, and urged to find, like them,
Their happiness in glorifying God.

How truly came from Heaven a messenger
Like this, — how surely leads to Heaven.



I KNOW not how to describe the Dream of Life better than by calling it a Poetical Autobiography. It is unfinished and fragmentary; but the portions which Mr. Ware has left are enough to show that he intended to record in it (allowing himself great freedom) the prominent events of his own life, sketches of natural scenery, of his journeys and his friends, and his impressions at different periods, and under different circumstances.

Between two and three thousand lines, more or less perfectly written out, have been found in several disconnected manuscripts, composed at intervals, sometimes of days, and sometimes of years

- at home in his study, and in various places in Europe. From these I have selected such portions as appeared to be most nearly finished.

It was one of his pleasing anticipations, that he might complete this poem in those seasons of comparative tranquillity and leisure, which, if he lived, he hoped to enjoy in the evening of his life, after the hard toils of his manhood.

The poem has two mottoes.

Dicite, lectores, si non sit grave, qua sit eundum,

Quasque petam sedes hospes in urbe liber.

OVID, Trist. III. 1.

Quel est donc ce veillard si modeste, avec tant d'amour propre,
et si malheureux avec tant de bonheur?

The few following fragments will enable the reader to form some idea of the character and merits of the Dream of Life.

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