Vengeance for ever sheathes the afflicting sword;
Death is destroyed, and Paradise restored;
Man, rising from the ruins of his fall,
Is one with GOD, and GOD is All in All

THE

WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

O place having been found in Asia to correspond exactly with the Mosaic description of the site of Paradise, the Author of the following Poem has disregarded both the learned and the absurd hypotheses on the subject, and at once imagining an inaccessible tract of land, at the confluence of four rivers, which after their junction take the name of the largest, and become the Euphrates of the ancient world, he has placed "the happy garden" there. Milton's noble fiction of the Mount of Paradise being removed by the Deluge, and pushed

"Down the great river to the opening gulf,"

and there converted into a barren isle, implies such a change in the water-courses as will, poetically at least, account for the difference between the scene of this story and the present face of the country, at the point where the Tigris and Euphrates meet. On the eastern side of these waters the author supposes the descendants of the younger children of Adam to dwell, possessing the land of Eden: the rest of the world having been gradually colonized by emigrants from these, or peopled by the posterity of Cain. In process of time, after the Sons of God had formed connections with the daughters of men, and there were giants in the earth, the latter assumed to be lords and rulers over mankind, till among themselves arose one, excelling all his brethren in knowledge and power, who became their king, and by their aid, in the course of a long life, subdued all the inhabited earth, except the land of Eden. This land, at the head of a mighty army, principally composed of the descendants of Cain, he has invaded and conquered, even to the banks of the Euphrates, at the opening of the action of the poem. It is only necessary to add, that for the sake of distinction, the invaders are frequently denominated from Cain, as "the host of Cain," "the force of

Cain," ," "the camp of Cain," and the remnant of the defenders of Eden are, in like manner, denominated from Eden. The Jews have an ancient tradition that some of the giants, at the Deluge, fled to the top of a high mountain, and escaped the ruin that involved the rest of their kindred. In the tenth Canto of the following poem a hint is borrowed from this tradition, but it is made to yield to the superior authority of Scripture testimony.

TO THE SPIRIT OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.*

MANY, my friend, have mourned for thee,

And yet shall many mourn,
Long as thy name on earth shall be

In sweet remembrance borne,

By those who loved thee here, and love
Thy spirit still in realms above.

For while thine absence they deplore,
'Tis for themselves they weep;
Though they behold thy face no more,
In peace thine ashes sleep,

And o'er the tomb they lift their eye,—
Thou art not dead, thou couldst not die.

In silent anguish, O my friend!
When I recall thy worth,
Thy lovely life, thine early end,
I feel estranged from earth;
My soul with thine desires to rest,
Supremely and for ever blest.

In loftier mood, I fain would raise
With my victorious breath
Some fair memorial of thy praise,
Beyond the reach of death;

Proud wish, and vain!—I cannot give

The word that makes the dead to live.

David Parker, Esq., of Lincoln's Inn, who had taken much interest in the poem

while it was in progress, but who died before it was completed.

Thou art not dead,-thou couldst not die;
To nobler life new-born,
Thou look'st in pity from the sky
Upon a world forlorn,

Where glory is but dying flame,

And immortality a name.

Yet didst thou prize the poet's art;
And when to thee I sung,

How pure, how fervent from the heart,
The language of thy tongue!

In praise or blame alike sincere,
But still most kind when most severe.

When first this dream in ancient times
Warm on my fancy glowed,

And forth in rude spontaneous rhymes
The song of wonder flowed;
Pleased but alarmed, I saw thee stand,
And checked the fury of my hand.

That hand with awe resumed the lyre,
I trembled, doubted, feared,
Then did thy voice my hope inspire,
My soul thy presence cheered:
But suddenly the light was flown,-
I looked, and found myself alone.

Alone, in sickness, care, and woe,
Since that bereaving day,

With heartless patience, faint and low,
I trilled the secret lay,

Afraid to trust the bold design

To less indulgent ears than thine.

'Tis done ;-nor would I dread to meet

The world's repulsive brow,

Had I presented at thy feet

The muse's trophy now,

And gained the smile I longed to gain,

The pledge of labour not in vain.

Full well I know, if thou wert here,

A pilgrim still with me,

Dear as my theme was once, and dear
As I was once to thee,-

Too mean to yield thee pure delight,
The strains that now the world invite.

Yet, could they reach thee where thou art,
And sounds might spirits move,
Their better, their diviner part

Thou surely wouldst approve,

Though heavenly thoughts are all thy joy,
And angel songs thy tongue employ.

My task is o'er; and I have wrought,
With self-rewarding teil,

To raise the scattered seed of thought
Upon a desert soil:

Oh for soft winds and clement showers!
I seek not fruit, I planted flowers.

Those flowers I trained, of many a hue,
Along thy path to bloom,

And little thought that I must strew
Their leaves upon thy tomb;
Beyond that tomb I lift mine eye,

Thou art not dead,-thou couldst not die.

Farewell, but not a long farewell;

In heaven may I appear,

The trials of my faith to tell

In thy transported ear,

And sing with thee the eternal strain—
"Worthy the Lamb that once was slain!"

January 23, 1813.