Proud land! what eye can trace thy mystic lore,

Locked up

in characters as dark as night?1 What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore,2

To which the parted soul oft wings her flight; Again to visit her cold cell of clay,

Charmed with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay?

II. 3.

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright 3
With purple ether's liquid light,
High o'er the world, the white-robed Magi gaze
On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire;
Start at each blue, portentous blaze,
Each flame that flits with adverse spire.
But say, what sounds my ear invade
From Delphi's venerable shade?
The temple rocks, the laurel waves!
"The God! the God!" the Sibyl cries.4
Her figure swells! she foams, she raves!
Her figure swells to more than mortal size!
Streams of rapture roll along,

Silver notes ascend the skies :
Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song,
Oh catch it, ere it dies!

The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er,
The holy harpings charm no more.
In vain she checks the God's control;
His madding spirit fills her frame,
And moulds the features of her soul,
Breathing a prophetic flame.

The Hieroglyphics.

2 The Catacombs.

3" The Persians," says Herodotus, "have no temples, altars, or statues. They sacrifice on the tops of the highest mountains."

I. 131.

En. VI. 46, &c.

The cavern frowns; its hundred mouths un

close!

And, in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire

flows!

III. 1.

Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead!
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
Even whisper to the idle air;

Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed.
Shivered by thy piercing glance,
Pointless falls the hero's lance.

Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,1
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory.
Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string!
At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er:
While murky Night sails round on raven-wing,
Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's

roar;

Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave below.

III. 2.

Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears! The red-cross squadrons madly rage,2

And mow thro' infancy and age;

Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears.
Veiling from the eye of day,

Penance dreams her life away;

In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, While from each shrine still, small responses rise.

1 See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29.

2 This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris,

Hear, with what heart-felt beat, the midnight

bell

Swings its slow summons thro' the hollow pile!
The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell,
To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle ;
With choral chantings vainly to aspire

Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of
fire.

III. 3.

Lord of each pang the nerves can feel, Hence with the rack and reeking wheel. Faith lifts the soul above this little ball! While gleams of glory open round, And circling choirs of angels call, Canst thou, with all thy terrors crowned, Hope to obscure that latent spark, Destined to shine when suns are dark? Thy triumphs cease! thro' every land, Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease! Her heavenly form, with glowing hand, co Benignly points to piety and peace.

Flushed with youth, her looks impart

Each fine feeling as it flows;

Her voice the echo of a heart

Pure as the mountain-snows:
Celestial transports round her play,
And softly, sweetly die away.

She smiles! and where is now the cloud
That blackened o'er thy baleful reign?
Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud,
Shrinking from her glance in vain.

Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above,
And lo! it visits man with beams of light and

THE SAILOR.

1786.

HE Sailor sighs as sinks his native
shore,

As all its lessening turrets bluely fade:
He climbs the mast to feast his eye

once more,

And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;
Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time.

True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Thro' all the horrors of the stormy main;
DThis, the last wish that would with life depart,
To meet the smile of her he loves again.

When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight-darkness join,
Still, still he sees the parting look she gave.

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole;
And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul.
Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain-forest, waving wide;
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide.

But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail!
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

-'T is she, 't is she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled;
Soon thro' the whitening surge he springs to land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

A WISH.

1786.

INE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.