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Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er-aw'd,
In that thrice hallowed eve abroad,
When ghosts, as cottage-maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen!
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men !

thou whose spirit molt poffeft
The sacred feat of Shakespear's breaft!
By all that from thy prophet broke,
In thy divine emotions spoke !
Hither again thy fury deal,
Teach me but once like him to feel :
His cypress wreath my meed decree,
And I, O Fear! will dwell with thee.

COLLINS.

с н А Р.

XIV.

O DE

TO TRUTH.

AY, will no white-sob’d Son of Light,
Swift-darting from his heav'nly height,

Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
Here wave his amber locks; unfold

His pinions cloath'd with downy gold; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?

And you, ye host of Saints, for ye have known Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,

circle

yon eternal throne With harpings high of inexpreffive praise,

Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of Fate?

Tho' now ye

'Tis filence all. No Son of Light Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height:

No train of radiant Saints descend. “ Mortals, in vain ye hope to find, If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind, “ Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend." So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred found Burst from the center of her burning throne: Where

aye

The fits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd; A bright Sun clasps her adamantine zone.

So Truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear : With many a folemn pause it slowly meets my ear.

« Attend, ye Sons of Men; attend, and say, Does not enough of my refulgent ray

Break thro' the veil of your mortality ?

Say, does not reason in this form descry
Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass
The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace?

Shall then your earth-born daughters vie
With me? Shall she, whose brightest eye

But emulates the diamond's blaze,
Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,

Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume,
Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,

Shall she be deem'd my rival ? Shall a form
Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,

Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day

Shall pass, and she is gone: while I appear Flush'd with the bloom of youth thro' Heav'n's eternal year.

7

Know,

Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung,
Ere first these orbs in æther hung,

I shone amid the heavenly throng;
These eyes beheld Creation's day,

This voice began the choral lay,
And taught Archangels their triumphant song.

Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth,
Saw infant Light with kindling luftre spread,

Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, And Ocean heave on its extended bed ;

Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky, The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly.

Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace,
Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face,

And, as he rose, the high beheft was giv'n,

“ That I alone of all the host of heav'n,

“ Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth :" Thus the Almighty fpake; he spake and call'd me TRUTH.

Mason,

O

CH A P. XV.
O DE то F A N с Ү.
PARENT of each lovely Muse,

Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my heartless fongs preside,
My footfteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock,

O Nymph

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O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brow's with Indian feathers crown'd,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Thro' air, and over earth and fea,
While the various landskip lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes';
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midft falls of water you reside,
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and graffy dales between,
'Midst forest dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear’d,
Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Where Nature seems to fit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
To thy unknown fequefter'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o’erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly woven boughs
Some nightingale fill builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to reft:

Then

Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser thro' a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak’d, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,
By the sweetly-foothing found !

Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes thro' the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads;
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Lift’ning to the shepherd's song.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my penfive mind employ:
Hafte, Fancy, from these scenes of folly
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and figh!
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults and tombs,
Where each fad night some Virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek;
Or to fome Abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where to avoid cold winter's show'rs,

The

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