Sweeps the long tract of day.
The blue profound, and hovering round the sun,
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream
Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway |
Bend the reluctant planets to absolve
The fated rounds of time. Thence far effused |
She darts her swiftness up the long career
Of devious comets: thro' its burning signs
Exulting measures the perennial wheel
Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, |
Whose blended light, as with a milky zone,
Invests the orient. |
Now amazed she views
The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, |
Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode;
And fields of radiance, | whose unfading light |
Has travell'd the profound six thousand years, |
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things. |
Ev'n on the barriers of the world untired |
She meditates the eternal depth below,
Till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep
She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallowed up |
In that immense of being. I
There her hopes
Rest at the fatal goal: | for, from the birth
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said, |
That not in humble nor in brief delight,
Not in the fading echoes of renown, |
Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap,!
The soul should find enjoyment; but, from these
Turning disdainful to an equal good,
Thro' all the ascent of things enlarge her view, |
Till every bound at length should disappear, |
And infinite perfection close the scene.
[A CONVERSATIONAL PLEASANTRY.]
Some wit of old such wits of old there were,
Whose hints show'd meaning, whose allusions care,
By one brave stroke, to mark all human kind, |
Call'd clear blank paper ev'ry infant mind; |
Where, still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, |
Fair Virtue put a seal, or Vice, a blot. |
The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; |
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. |
I (can you pardon my presumption ?), | I,
No wit, no genius, yet, for once, will try. |
Various the paper, various wants produce; |
The wants of fashion | elegance, and use.
Men are as various; and if right I scan, |
Each sort of paper represents some man. |
Pray note the fop, | half powder and half lace; |
Nice, as a band-box were his dwelling place; |
He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the scrutoire.a
Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so fōrth, |
Are copy-paper, | of inferior worth; |
Less priz'd, more useful, | for your desk decreed; |
Free to all pens, | and prompt at ev'ry need. ]
The wretch, whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, |
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, |
Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlars choose |
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.
Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys |
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys; |
a Scrutoire, a case of drawers for writings.
Will any paper match him? | Yes, throughout; |
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt. |
The retail politician's anxious thought |
Deems this side always right, and that stark nought; |
He foams with censure; I with applause he raves; |
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves; |
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim, {
While such a thing as foolscap has a name. I
The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, |
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry,
Who can't a jest, a hint, or look, endure; [
What is he? What? | Touch-paper to be sure. [
What are our poets, take them as they fall, |
Good, bad, rich, poor, | much read, not read at all ? ¦
Them and their works in the same class you'll find : |
They are the mere waste-paper of mankind. |
Observe the maiden, | innocently sweet; |
She's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet; |
On which the happy man whom fate ordains, |
May write his name, and take her for his pains. |
One instance more, and only one, I'll bring:|
'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing; |
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his
own,
Form'd on the feelings of his heart alone:|
True, genuine, royal-paper is his breast; |
Of all the kinds most precious, | purest, | best. |
MOSES SMITING THE ROCK.
(w. A. VAN VRANKEN.)
On the parch'd plains the tribes of Israel lay, |
Fatigued and sad, to raging thirst a prey:|
In that lone region, in that desert drear, |
No streamlet's murmur stole upon the ear;
No brook pellucid glanc'd its light along, |
To cheer the vision of that fainting throng.
Nought met the eye | save Horeb's rock that frown'd, |
In gloomy grandeur, on the scene around. |
At its broad base, | behold the patriarch stand, |
And with his rod, at the Divine command, |
Smite its dark front: | o'erawed by Power Supreme,
Its riven breast expell'd a copious stream; |
The new-born waters pour'd their torrents wide, |
And foam'd, and thunder'd, down its craggy side. |
At the glad sound each Hebrew mother there |
Her infant clasp'd, and look'd to Heaven a prayer: |
Joy thrill'd all hearts; | for lo! the sunbeams play, |
In radiant glory, on the flashing spray,
That dash'd its crystals o'er the rocky pile, |
A beauteous emblem of Jehovah's smile. I
My silent and mysterious flight |
Reveals each morn the glorious light |
That gilds the passing year;|
I never stop to rest my wing:
Triumphant on the blast I spring-|
My plumage, dark and sere. I
Onward I speed my flight sublime ; |
Before me withers manhood's prime, |
While pillar, dome, and tower,
And massy piles, and temples grand, |
Lie crush'd beneath my iron hand
Resistless is my power.
Remorseless boaster, hold! | thy wings |
May sweep aside life's beauteous things, |
Mere creatures of an hour: |
Thou canst not reach the Heavenly bloom,
Celestial tints, and rich perfume, |
Of virtue's lovely flower.
TO THE AMERICAN FLAG.
(DRAKE AND HALLECK.)
When freedom from her mountain_height |
Unfurl'd her standard to the air,|
She tore the azure robe of night, |
And set the stars of glory there! |
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes |
The milky baldric of the skies, |
And striped its pure celestial white, |
With streakings from the morning light! |
Then, from her mansion in the sun, [
She called her eagle-bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand]
The symbol of her chosen land! |
Majestic monarch of the cloud! |
Who rear'st aloft thy régal form, |
To hear the tempest trumping loud,]
And see the lightning lances driven, |
When strides the warrior of the storm, |
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven! |
Child of the sun! | to thee 't is given |
To guard the banner of the free-
To hover in the sulphur smoke, |
To ward away the battle-stroke, I
And bid its blendings shine afar, |
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbinger of victory!
Flag of the brave! | thy folds shall fly,] The sign of hope and triumph high!| When speaks the signal-trumpet's tone, I And the long line comes gleaming on; | Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, | Has dimm'd the glistening bayonetEach soldier's eye shall brightly turn, | To where thy meteor glories burn, I
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