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"' Art thou a Wanderer 1—Hast thou seen
Overwhelming tempests drown thy bark'!
A shipwreck'd sufferer hast thou been,
Misfortune's mark ' I

"Though long of winds and waves the spcrt,
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam,
Live!—thou shalt reach a sheltering port,
A quiet home.

"To Friendship didst thou trust thy Fame,
And was thy friend a deadly foe,
Who stole into thy breast, to aim
A surer blow?

"Live!—and repine not o'er his loss,
A loss unworthy to be told:
Thou has mistaken sordid dross

For friendship's gold.

"Seek the true treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm.

"Did woman's charms thy youth beguile,
And did the fair one faithless prove/
Hath she betray'd thee with her smile,
And sold thy love?

"Live!—'Twas a false bewildering fire:
Too often Love's insidious dart
Thrills the fond soul with wild desire,
But kills the heart!

"Thou yet shalt know, how sweet, how dear,
To gaze on listening beauty's eye!
To ask,—and pause in hope and fear
Till she reply!

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"Humbled beneath His mighty hand,
Prostrate, His providence adore:
'Tis done!—Arise! He bids thee stand,
To fall no more.

"Now, traveller in the vale of tears!
To realms of everlasting light,
Through Time's dark wilderness of years.
Pursue thy flight.

"There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground;

"The soul, of origin divine,
God's glorious image, freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine
A star of day!

"The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
'.The soul, immortal as its Sire,

Shall never die


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Where the roving rill meander' d

Down the green retiring vale,
Poor forlorn Alcseus wander'J,

Pale with thought, serenely pale:
Timeless sorrow o'er his face
Breathed a melancholy grace,
And fix'd on every feature there
The mournful resignation of despair.

O'er his arm, his lyre neglected,

Once his dear companion, hung,
And, in spirit deep dejected,

Thus the pensive poet sung;
While at midnight's solemn noon,
Sweetly shone the cloudless moon,
And all the stars around his head,
Benignly bright their mildest influence shed.

"Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,

Solace of my bleeding heart!
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,

We must ever, ever part:
For in vain thy poet sings,
Wooes in vain thine heavenly strings;
The Muse's wretched sons are born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.

"That which Alexander sigh'd for,

That which Caesar's soul possess'd,
That which heroes, kings, have died for—

Glory!—animates my breast:
Hark! the charging trumpet's throats
Pour their death-defying notes:
'To arms!' they call: to arms I fly,
Like Wolfe to conquer, and like Wolfe to die I

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"Soft !—the blood of murder'd legions
Summons vengeance from the skies;

Flaming towns and ravaged regions,
All in awful judgment rise!—

O then, innocently brave,

1 will wrestle with the wave;

Lo! Commerce spreads the daring sail,
And yokes her naval chariots to the gale.

"Blow ye breezes!—gently blowing,

Waft me to that happy shore,
Where from fountains ever flowing,

Indian realms their treasures pour;
Thence returning, poor in health,
Rich in honesty and wealth,
O'er thee, my dear paternal soil!
I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.

"Then shall Misery's sons and daughters

In their lowly dwellings sing:
Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,

Undiscover'd as the spring,
I will scatter o'er the land
Blessings with a secret hand;—
For such angelic tasks design'd,
I give the Lyre and sorrow to the wind."

On an oak, whose branches hoary
Sigh'd to every passing breeze,
Sigh'd and told the simple story

Of the patriarch of trees;
High in air his harp he hung,
Now no more to rapture strung;
Then warm in hope, no longer pale,
He blush'd adieu, and rambled down the dale.

Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,
Hark! the Lyre enchants the wind;

Fond Alcseus listens, lingers,—
Lingering, listening, looks behind.

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Now the music mounts on high,
Sweetly swelling through the sky;

To every tone, with tender heat,

His heart-strings vibrate, and his pulses beat.

Now the strains to silence stealing,

Soft in ecstasies expire;
Oh! with what romantic feeling
Poor Alcaeus grasps the Lyre!
Lo ! his furious hand he flings
In a tempest o'er the strings;
He strikes the chord so quick, so loud,
'Tis Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud!

"Lyre! O Lyre! my chosen treasure,

Solace of my bleeding heart;
Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,

We will never, never part!—
Glory, Commerce, now in vain,
Tempt me to the field, the main;
The Muse's sons are blest, though born
To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.

"What, though all the world neglect me,

Shall my haughty soul repine?
And shall poverty deject me,

While this hallow'd Lyre is mine 1
Heaven—that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed,—.
Heaven gave this Lyre !—and thus decreed,
'Be thou a bruised, but not a broken reed !'"

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