Imagens das páginas

"A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,
A brighter maiden faithful prove ;
Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest
In woman's love.


Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be, Confess thy folly, -kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrows see The hand of God.

"A bruised reed He will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel:
He wounds them for his mercy's sake,
He wounds to heal.

“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,


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"Ah! who would love the lyre!"


WHERE the roving rill meander'd
Down the green retiring vale,
Poor, forlorn ALCEUS wander'd,

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 now for ever part;

For in vain thy poet sings,

Woos 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 CÆSAR's soul possess'd,
That which heroes, kings, have died for
Glory! animates my breast:
Hark! the charging trumpets' throats
Pour their death-defying notes;

'To arms!' they call: to arms I fly,

Like WOLFE to conquer, and like WOLFE to die.

"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,

I 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



"Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
In their lonely dwellings sing:
Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
Undiscover'd as their 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 be 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,


- the Lyre enchants the wind;

Fond ALCAUS listens, lingers

Lingering, listening, looks behind.

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 ALCEUS grasps the Lyre.

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