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Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice hallowed eve abroad,
When ghofts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen!
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men!
O thou whofe fpirit most poffeft
The facred feat of Shakespear's breaft!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions fpoke!
Hither again thy fury deal,

Teach me but once like him to feel:
His cyprefs wreath my meed decree,

And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee.




AY, will no white-rob'd Son of Light,
Swift-darting from his heav'nly height,
Here deign to take his hallow'd ftand;
Here wave his amber locks; unfold
His pinions cloath'd with downy gold;
Here smiling ftretch his tutelary wand?

you, ye host of Saints, for ye have known
Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,
Tho' now ye circle yon eternal throne

With harpings high of inexpreffive praise,

Will not your train defcend in radiant state,

To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of Fate?


'Tis filence all. No Son of Light

Darts fwiftly from his heav'nly height:

No train of radiant Saints defcend.

"Mortals, in vain ye hope to find, "If guilt, if fraud has flain'd your mind, "Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend." So TRUTH proclaims. I hear the facred found Burft from the center of her burning throne: Where aye fhe fits with ftar-wreath'd luftre crown'd; A bright Sun clafps her adamantine zone.

So TRUTH proclaims: her awful voice I hear: With many a folemn paufe it flowly meets my ear.

"Attend, ye Sons of Men; attend, and say, Does not enough of my refulgent ray

Break thro' the veil of your mortality?

Say, does not reafon in this form defcry
Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that furpafs
The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace?
Shall then your earth-born daughters vie
With me? Shall fhe, whofe brightest eye

But emulates the diamond's blaze,
Whofe cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,
Whofe breath the hyacinth's perfume,

Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,
Shall the be deem'd my rival? Shall a form
Of elemental drofs, of mould'ring clay,

Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm

Shall prove her conteft vain. Life's little day

Shall pass, and she is gone: while I appear

Flush'd with the bloom of youth thro' Heav'n's eternal year.



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Know, Mortals know, ere firft ye fprung,

Ere first these orbs in æther hung,

I shone amid the heavenly throng;
eyes beheld Creation's day,


This voice began the choral lay,

And taught Archangels their triumphant fong.
Pleas'd I furvey'd bright Nature's gradual birth,
Saw infant Light with kindling luftre spread,
Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth,
And Ocean heave on its extended bed;

Saw the tall pine afpiring pierce the sky,

The tawny lion ftalk, the rapid eagle fly.

Laft, Man arose, erect in youthful grace,
Heav'n's hallow'd image ftamp'd upon his face,
And, as he rofe, the high beheft was giv'n,
"That I alone of all the host of heav'n,

"Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth:"

Thus the Almighty fpake: he spake and call'd me TRUTH.






PARENT of each lovely Mufe,

Thy fpirit o'er my foul diffuse,
O'er all my heartlefs fongs prefide,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no coftly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock,


O Nymph

O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bofom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy fnowy hand

An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren fnow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and fea,
While the various landskip lies
Confpicuous to thy piercing eyes;
O lover of the defert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's fide,
'Midft falls of water you refide,
'Midft broken rocks, a rugged fcene,
With green and graffy dales between,
'Midst foreft dark of aged oak,

Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear'd,

Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature feems to fit alone,

Majestic on a craggy throne;

Tell me the path, fweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines clufter round the door,
Where shells and mofs o'erlay the floor,
And on whofe top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whofe thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale ftill builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to reft:


Then lay me by the haunted ftream,
Rapt in fome wild, poetic dream,
In converfe while methinks I rove
With Spenfer thro' a fairy grove;
Till fuddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd mufic in my ear,
And my glad foul in blifs is drown'd,
By the fweetly-foothing found!

Me, Goddefs, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,

Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads ;
Where Laughter rofe-lip'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Lift'ning to the fhepherd's fong.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my penfive mind employ:
Hafte, Fancy, from these scenes of folly
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms and figh!

Let us with filent footsteps go

To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each fad night fome Virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to feek;
Or to fome Abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's fhow'rs,


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