In long progressive order through the skies,
The courts of thy Great Father! On the day
Of final retribution thou shalt rise
To judge with righteousness the earth, and take
Vengeance on the transgressors; on their head
Thou shalt pour out the vials dread
Of fierce displeasure; and within them wake
Remorse, and tenfold anguish, and dismay;
Through countless periods doomed to feel
The iron scourge and torturing wheel,
In that dark gulph Tartarean chained,
Which Nemesis of old ordained:
Then shall the faithful triumph: they that stood
The firm assertors of thy laws,
And loved thy hallowed mandates high,
With joy and holy transport shall appear
Surviving this diurnal sphere,
The heirs of immortality!
Honoured with approbation, and applause
From THE SUPREME: Unfolding 'midst a flood
Of light, and lucid order, Heaven's design
Consummated at length, shall throw
New splendours o'er this scene below,
And bid 'midst Glory's circlet shine
The wisdom of the Eternal Cause;
Who ere He Earth's foundations laid,
Or Ocean in his balance weighed,
Willed, that from thy immortal source
Each godlike act should take its course,
Combining in one perfect plan
The dignity, the rank, and happiness of Man.
* Whose iron scourge, and torturing hour.
GRAY'S ODE TO ADVERSITY.
THE Wizard of Winter is rouz'd from his sleep,
In
anger he comes o'er the waves of the deep;
In anger he comes,-but I heed not his roar,
For the Wizard of Winter can vex me no more.
The sea fowl retires to her desolate home,
His fury has warn'd her no longer to roam;
But I may the frown of his vengeance defy,
For it never can wither my blossoms of joy.
Lo! he comes to the bed of the fragrant flow'r,
And roots up the beautiful child of an hour.
Now wildly he rides through the regions of air,
Destroying whatever is goodly and fair.
But harmless to me is the blast of his wing;
The bolts of his wrath he is welcome to fling;
For my callous bosom he never can bruise;
And I have no soul-valued treasures to lose.
"Tis the morning of Summer that wakes me to pain;
"Tis the soft song of pleasure that maddens my brain;
For Summer may come in the pride of her bloom,
May give to the woodlands their wonted perfume,
And the vallies may echo with songs of delight,
And unmark'd the moments pursue their gay flight;
Yet Summer to me shall no image present
But the image of bliss that was long ago spent.
For, often has Nature her vestments renew'd,
And often the South-wind his wild flight pursued,
Since that moment arriv'd which was big with my fate,
Which condemn'd me to wander, to mourn, and to hate;
That moment when villainy doom'd me to shame,
And from Purity's register struck out my name;
That moment, when Falsehood withdrew from my sight,
And my soul plung'd aghast 'mid the darkness of night.
The storm has blown o'er!-but its traces are left;
Like a wave-shatter'd vessel my bosom is reft.
As the roe from the hunter, I fly from mankind,
Or the shrunk leaf of autumn when chac'd by the wind.
For the world is my foe, its cold glance of disdain
Would scowl on my grief, and would scoff at my pain;
Fair maidens would turn from this eye of despair,
As tho' the foul Fiend of Infection dwelt there.
Yet once there were eyes that would smile upon mine,
But the Angel of Death has forbade them to shine;
There were lips that could chace from my bosom her woe,
And the purest of kisses were wont to bestow;
There were arms to whose shelter I fled when opprest,
That were always my home, and my haven of rest:
But quickly from Joy's narrow door I was thrust ;-
The best and the loveliest now moulders in dust.
Yet blest to escape-the dark whirlwind's rude swell
Would have rent thy proud soul when my innocence fell;
Yes; blest to the earth's darkling womb to return,
Ere thy cheek had been taught by my follies to burn;
Ere the whispers of Rumour had poison'd thine ear
With the tale of my ruin,-the source of my tear;
Ere the glare of conviction had taught thee to prove
That the foe of thy peace was the child of thy love.
Oh, scenes of my childhood! I view you once more;
My fancy retires from this wave-beaten shore;
My fancy retraces that lovely abode,
Where the steps of my youth and my innocence trod;
Oh, scenes of my childhood! I fly to your arms,
And gaze with a lover's fond eye on your charms;
For still your wild graces shall comfort bestow,
And snatch for an instant my spirit from woe.
Ye vallies of beauty! ye summits of green!
To your lovely Eden no spoiler has been;
And Summer shall ever your graces renew,
Your woods of rich verdure, your skies of fair blue.
My Summer has vanish'd no more to return,
In sadness and winter I ever shall mourn;
For nought can the lustre of Virtue restore,
When cropt are her blossoms, they flourish no more.
'Tis true, I might shorten this night of despair;
With the wings of a dove" I might fly from my care.
It is but to close the dark curtain of life,
To drown in oblivion its turmoil and strife;
Since no tear of pity for me would be shed;
Forgotten by all, I should sleep with the dead;
No sorrowing parent would hang o'er my grave,
Where the tall bearded thistle should mournfully wave.
Yet, No! I will bow to the rigours of fate,
For peace yet awaits me,-nor distant the date.
Repentance is mine, and behold, from on high,
Faith beckons my fluttering soul to the sky:
She tells me to call on the God of my youth,
She bids me to trust to his mercy and truth,
And whispers, "These words are recorded in Heav'n-
"Poor wand'rer look up, for thy sins are forgiv'n."
YE lofty woods, that proudly sweep
Along the hill, along the plain,
That in your bounds fair pastures keep,
And fields enrich'd with golden grain :
Ah! not for me this ample space
Of hill and vale ye proudly sweep; Nor yet for me your groves embrace Rich fields and pastures white with sheep.
Yet let me praise you, not in vain
That dark solitudes among
I may of fate unkind complain,
And love's reward delay'd too long:
Yet let me praise you, that I may
On your smooth trees the name engrave Of her from whom so far I stray, To wayward destinies a slave.
O mighty lords, ye to whose share
These woods and fields, and pastures fall, How long to you alone her care
Shall Fortune lend, deaf to my call?
Still busy for your state and power,
Fair lands, proud mansions to provide;
When will she rear my humble bower,
When will she give to me my bride?
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