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Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon,
And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards.
Thy sadness to the cold unherding crowd; I.
So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud
Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far SAW'ST thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic ware.
paused: Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the
stream That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. Again, more light it gleam'd, or does some sprite Delude mine eyes with shapes of woods and streams,
O GIVE me music-for my soul doth faint;
I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear Keeps in the lights at this unwanted hour?
Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint,
That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.
Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along,
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve,
When all is still; and now it grows more strong, No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea
As when the choral train their dirges weave,
Mellow and many-voiced; where every close,
Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind.
Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores,
And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind.
Farewell ! base earth, farewell ! my soul is freed,
AH! who can say, however fair his view,
Through what sad scenes his path may lie ? The glaring sunbeam plays.
Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh,
Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue,
Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye
The illusive past and dark futurity;
And from his tower of mist,
AND must thou go, and must we part ?
Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit;
Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it?
Some happier youth may win thy
- Much musing
Thy melancholy ray:
Is walking on her way.
I throw aside the learned sheet,
Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,
Or why am I so frail ?
WHEN I sit musing on the checker'd past,
(A term much darken'd with untimely woes, )
I say to her she rubb'd me of my rest,
Though wrong'd, I love her-yet in anger love,
For she was most unworthy. Then I prove
• These Fragments are Henry's latest compositions; and were, for the most part, written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the few moments of the last year of his life, in which he suffered himself to follow the impulse of his genius.
WHEN high romance o'er every wood and stream
Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire,
An unere was mystery then, the gust that woke Chain'd to the grovelling frailties of the flesh,
Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, And unseen fairies would the moon invoke,
Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye, To their light morrice by the restless surge. The aim uncertain gulf, which now the muse, Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, Adventurous, would explore;
but dizzy grown, Too much
He topples down the abyss.- If he would scant The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.
Of its unfathomable depths, that so
And learn to follow, without giddiness,
To heights where all is vision, and surprise,
And vague conjecture.--He must waste by night HUSH'D is the lyre--the hand that swept
The studious taper, far from all resort The low and pensive wires,
Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat ; Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. High on the beetling promontory's crest,
Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, Yes it is still—the lyre is still ;
Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest The spirit which its slumbers broke
shapes, Hath pass'd away,--and that weak hand that He may be driven to centre all his thoughts woke
In the great Architect, who lives confess'd
In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes.
So has divine Philosophy, with voice
Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy,
Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, * As in the wood-paths of my native
His faint, neglected song-intent to snatch
With Truth's severer brow; and one withal
So hardy as shall brave the passing wind
In loveliness, when he who gather'd it
Is number'd with the generations gone.
Given studious leisure, or unbroken thought, I heard the flood of ages pass away.
Such as he owns,-a meditative man; O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell
Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve In thine eternal cell,
Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, Noting, gray chronicler 'the silent years;
Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din: I saw thee rise, I saw the scroll complete, From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd Thou spak'st, and at thy feet
With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day
Hath duties which require the vigorous hand
The night's my own-They cannot steal my night!
When evening lights her folding-star on high,
Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies,
Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space,
Hence do I love the sober-suited maid ; (theme, Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower,
Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance;
And she shall aid me now to magnify,
Are lock'd'in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze Faint-blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far, Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved
Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace
Assumes her wonted sway. The vast effect to its superior source,
Behold the world Spirit, attend my lowly benison !
Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused For now I strike to themes of import high
From trouble and turmoil. The widow now The solitary lyre ; and, borne by thee
Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie Above this narrow cell, I celebrate
Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. The mysteries of Time!
The man of sorrow has forgot his woes;
Him who, august, The outcast that his head is shelterless, Was ere these worlds were fashioned,-ere the sun His griefs unshared.--The mother tends no more Sprang from the east, or Lucifer display'd
Her daughter's dying slumbers, but, surprised His glowing cresset in the arch of morn,
With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, Or Vesper gilded the serener eve.
Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, sull'd Yea, He had been for an eternity!
On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd, Had swept un varying from eternity
Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shudder The harp of desolation-ere his tones,
ing nurse, At God's command, assumed a milder strain, Poor victim ! smiles.-Silence and deep repose And startled on his watch, in the vast deep,
Reign o'er the nations; and the warning voice Chaos' sluggish sentry, and oked
Of Nature utters audibly within
The general moral :-tells us that repose,
Is coming on us that the weary crowds, • This Poem was begun either during the pub- Who now enjoy a temporary calm, lication of Clifton Grove, or shortly afterwards. Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd around Henry never laid aside the intention of completing it, and some of the detached parts were among his latest productions.
• The author was then in an attorney's cflice.
With grave-clothes: and their aching restless Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat
Of ignorance and sloth ? and shall we dare
Who needs a teacher to admonish him
Where now is Britain ?-Where her laureli'd But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ?
Her palaces and halls ? Dash'd in the dust, There's not a wind that blows but bears with it Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, Some rainbow promise :-Not a moment flies And with one big recoil hath thrown her back But puts its sickle in the fields of life,
To primitive barbarity, Again,
Of bloody Superstition hollow rings,
The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts,
Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash Have buffeted mankind-whole nations razed Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. Cities made desolate,--the polish'd sunk
Even as the savage sits upon the stone To barbarism, and once barbaric tates
That marks where stood her capitols, and hears Swaying the wand of science and of arts;
The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks Illustrious deeds and memorable names
From the dismaying solitude.--Her bards Blotted from record, and upon the tongue
Sing in a language that hath perished; Of gray Tradition, voluble no more.
And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves,
Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain.
Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy,
Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams, Exultant, mocking at the pride of man,
Steering his bark through trackless solitudes, Sits grim Forgetfulness.-1'he warrior's arm Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame;
Hath ever plough'd before, --espies the cliffs Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the Of fallen Albion.- To the land unknown blaze
He journey: joyful; and perhaps descries
Some vestige of her ancient stateliness :
Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived
Far from the civil world, and sagely sighs,
And moralizes on the state of man.
Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt,
Moves on our being. We do live and breathe,
O how weak And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. Is mortal man! how_trifling-how confined
We have our spring-time and our rottenness; His scope of vision! Puff'd with confidence, And as we fall, another race succeeds, His phrase grows big with immortality,
To perish likewise.- Meanwhile Nature smiles And he, poor insect of a summer's day!
The seasons run their round-The Sun fulfils Dreams of eternal honours to his name;
His annual course and Heaven and earth remain Of endless glory and perennial bays.
Still changing, yet unchanged-still doom'd to feel He idly reasons of eternity,
Endless mutation in perpetual rest. As of the train of ages, -when, alas!
Where are concealed the days which have elapsed ? Ten thousand thousand of his centuries
Hid in the mighty cavern of the past, Are, in comparision, a little point
They rise upon us only to appal, Too trivial for account.-0, it is strange,
By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, 'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies;
Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch, And smile, and say, My name shall live with this When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, Till Time shall be no more; while at his feet, And the pale moon, that through the casement Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust
high Of the fallen fabric of the other day
Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour
To wind the mighty secrets of the past,
And turn the key of Time ! Oh! who can strive Of the gigantic pyramid? or who
To comprehend the vast, the awful truth,
Is summ'd in birth-days and in sepulchres:
Where is Rome But the Eternal God had no beginning; She lives but in the tale of other times;
He hath no end. Time had been with him Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home,
For everlastiny, ere the dædal world And her long colonnades, her public walks,
Rose from the gulf in loveliness.—Like him Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet,
It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace,
What is it then? The past Eternity! Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd We comprehend a future without end; dust.
We feel it possible that even yon sun But not to Rome alone has fate confined
May roll for ever : but we shrink amazed The doom of ruin; cities numberless,
We stand aghast, when we reflect that time Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy,
Knew no commencement, That heap age on age, And rich Phoenicia-they are blotted out,
And million upon million, without end,
That were, and are not but in retrospect.
Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse Alluding to the first astronomical observations which hath no mensuration, but hath been made by the Chaldean shepherds.
For ever and for ever.
Change of days Against his Maker's will? The Polygar, To us is sensible; and each revolve
Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him of the recording sun conducts us on
Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys, Farther in life, and nearer to our goal.
Is the most bless'd of men-Oh! I would walk Not so with Time,--mysterious chronicler,
A weary journey, to the furthest verge He knoweth not mutation ;-centuries
Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Are to his being as a day, and days
Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, As centuries.-Time past, and Time to come, Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, Are always equal; when the world began
Feeling the sense of his own littleness,
Is as a child in meek simplicity!
Of letters and of tongues? Even as the mists
Now look on man Of the gray morn before the rising sun,
Earthly things Where once we stood ?-The same eternity
Are but the transient pageants of an hour; Hath gone before him, and is yet to come;
And earthly pride is like the passing flower, His past is not of longer span than ours,
That springs to fall, and blossoms but die. Though myriads of ages intervened ;
Tis as the tower erected on a cloud,
Baseless and silly as the school-boy's dream.
And then record its downfall, what are they
But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? In speculations of an altitude
Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserve Sablime as this, our reason stands confess'd
Its stated eras ? Doth the Omnipotent Poolish, and insignificant, and mean.
Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays? Who can apply the futile argument
There is to God nor future nor a past; Of finite beings to infinity ?
Throned in his might, all times to him are present; He might as well compress the universe
He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come; Into the bollow compass of a gourd,
He sees before him one eternal now. Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whale Time moveth not our being 'tis that moves, Drint up the sea it swims in Can the less
And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, Contain the greater? or the dark obscure
Dream of swift ages and revolving years, Infold the glories of meridian day?
Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days; What does Philosophy impart to man
So the young sailor in the gallant bark, Bet undiscover'd wondersLet her soar
Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast Esen to her proudest heights—to where she caught Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, The soul of Newton and of Socrates,
Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, She but extends the scope of wild amaze
And that the land is sailing. And admiration. All her lessons end
Such, alas! la vider views of God's unfathom'd depths.
Are the illusions of this Proteus life;
All, all is false : through every phasis still Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knew
'Tis shadowy and deceitful. It assumes To raise his mind excursive to the heights
The semblances of things and specious shapes; Of abstract contemplation, as he sits
But the lost traveller might as soon rely On the green hillock by the hedge-row side,
On the evasive spirit of the marsh, What time the insect swarms are murmuring, Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, As we on its appearances. Peels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse
On earth The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd
There is nor certainty nor stable hope. The goodly prospect; he beholds the God
As well the weary mariner, whose bark Throned in the west, and his reposing ear
Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze
Where Storm and Darkness hold their drear do That floats through neighbouring copse of fairy
And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust Or lingers playful on the haunted stream.
To expectation of serener skies, Go with the cotter to his winter fire,
And linger in the very jaws of death, Where c'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, Because some peevish cloud were opening, And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon;
Or the loud storm had bated in its rage : Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar, As we look forward in this vale of tears Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless To permanent delight-from some slight glimpse The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds Of shadowy unsubstantial happiness. Por his snug hearth, and all his little joys: Hear him compare his happier lot with his
The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow Of mortal desolation. He beholds Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path,
Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, Of ranıpant Ruin, or the unstable waves He bears some village-mastiffs distant howl, Of dark Vicissitude.--Even in death,And sees, far-streaming, some lone cottage light; In that dread hour, when with a giant pang, Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, A clasps his shivering hands; or overpower'd, The immortal spirit struggles to be free, Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, sleep,
Por it exists beyond the narrow verge From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. Of the cold sepulchre.- The petty joys Thus the poor rusúc warms his heart with praise Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, And glowing gratitude,-he turns to bless,
And rested on the bosom of its God. With bonest warmth, his Maker and his God! This is man's only reasonable hope ; od shall it eer be said, that a poor hind,
And 'tis a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred
Shall not be disappointed.-Even he, in want and labour, glows with nobler zeal
The Holy One-Almighty-who elanced To laud his Maker's attributes, while he
The rolling world along its airy way, Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd,
Even He will deign to smile upon the good, And Castaly enchasten'd with its dews
And welcome him to these celestial seats, Closes his eyes upon the holy word,
Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. And, blind to all but arrogance and pride,
Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, Dares to declare his infidelity,
Survey the countless gems which richly stud, and openly contemn the lord of Hosts ?
The Night's imperial chariot ;-Telescopes What is philosophy, if it impart
Will show thee myriads more innumerous Irrectence for the Deity, or teach
Than the sea sand ;-each of those little lamps A mortal man to'set his judgment up
Is the great source of light, the central sun
Round which some other mighty sisterhood
To the lone tenant of some secret cell Of planets travel, every planet stock'd
In the Pacific's vast
• realm, With living beings impotent as thee.
Where never plummet's sound was heard to part Now, proud man! now, where is thy greatness fled? The wilderness of water; they shall come What art thou in the scale of universe ?
To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. Less, less than nothing !-Yet of thee the God Thou first shalt summon the elected saints, Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, To their apportion'a Heaven ! and thy Son, As well as of the mendicant who begs
At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou
On all his past distresses, when for them Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn
He bore humanity's severest pangs
Then shalt thou seize the avenging scymitar,
The wicked shall be driven to their abode,
Down the immitigable gulf, to wail
And gnash their teeth in endless agony.
Rear thou aluft thy standard. Spirit, rear
In unparticipated might. Behold Swift and impetuous as the northern blast,
Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent sway, Ridest from pole to pole; Thou who dost hold Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp,
Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush
Thy signet on them, and they rise no more.
Who shall contend with Timu-unvanquish'a Time Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude.
The conqueror of conquerors, and lord Of Thee has been my song-With awe I kneel Of desolation ?-Lo! the shadows fly, Trembling before the footstool of thy state,
The hours and days, and years and centuries, My God! my Father ! -I will sing to Thee
They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall. a hymn of laud, a solemn canticle,
The young are old, the old are in their graves. Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades Heard'st thou that shout? It rent the vaulted skies; The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre, It was the voice of people,-mighty crowds,And give its wild strings to the desert gale.
Again! 'tis hush'd-Time speaks, and all is hush'd; Rise, Son of Salem! rise, and join the strain, In the vast multitude now reigns alone Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp,
Unruffled solitude. They all are still ; And leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul
All-yea, the whole--the incalculable mass, To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing,
Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. And hallelujah, for the Lord is great And full of mercy! He has thought of man; Rear thou aloft thy standard.–Spirit, rear Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds. has Thy flag on high! and glory in thy strength. thought
But do thou know the season yet shall come, Of we poor worms, that batten in the dews
When from its base thine adamantine throne Of morn, and perish ere the noon-day sun.
Shall tumble; when thine arm shall cease to strike, Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful:
Thy voice forget its petrifying power; He gave the Nubian lion but to live,
When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more To rage its hour, and perish; but on man
Yea, he doth come-the mighty champion comes, He lavish'd immortality, and Heaven.
Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death wound, The eagle falls from her aerial tower,
Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, And mingles with irrevocable dust:
And desolate stern Desolation's lord. But man from death springs joyful,
Lo! where he cometh ! the Messiah comes ! Springs up to life and to eternity:
The King ! the Comforter! the Christ !-He comes Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon,
To burst the honds of death, and overtum The great exclusive privilege bestow'd
The power of Time.-Hark! the trumpet's blast On us unworthy trifles, men should dare
Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads riseTo treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven, Even from their graves they spring, and burst the And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear
Forgotten generations live again,
Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, And fold them, ere tify perish, in thy flock. Beyond the flood :--the righteous of their times Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross,
The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap Bled a dead sacrifice for human sin,
Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, And paid, with bitter agony, the debt
And heritor with her of Heaven,-a flowers Of primitive transgression.
Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain.
Oh ! I shrink, Of native guilt, even in its early bud. My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect
And, hark! those strains, how solernnly serene That the time hastens, when in vengeance clothed, They fall, as from the skies--at distance fall — Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate Again more loud-The hallelujah's swell; On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels The newly-risen catch the joyful sound ; Then shall rebound to carth's remotest caves, They glow, they burn; and now with one accord And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start
Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song
Who bled for mortals.
Yet there is peace for man.-Yea, there is peace Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene; Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word !
When from the crowd, and from the city far, The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep! Haply he may be set (in his late walk The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey. O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, Of human victims-From the farthest nook
And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys Of the wide world shall troop their risen souls, The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, From him whose bones are bleeching in the waste And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse,
Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides,
Far from the unquietness of life-from noise Is wash'd on some Carribean prominence,
And tumult far beyond the flying clouds,