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The lambs with wolves fhall graze the verdant mead, And boys in flow'ry bands the tiger lead;
The fteer and lion at one crib fhall meet,
And harmless ferpents lick the pilgrim's feet;
The fmiling infant in his hand shall take
The crefted bafilisk and fpeckled fnake,
Pleas'd, the green luftre of the scales furvey,
And with their forky tongue fhall innocently play.
Rife, crown'd with light, imperial Salem ! rife!
Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes!
See, a long race thy fpacious courts adorn;
See future fons, and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on ev'ry fide arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend;
See thy bright altars throng'd with proftrate kings
And heap'd with products of Sabæn springs!
For thee Idume's fpicy forefts blow,
And feeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See heav'n its sparkling portals wide difplay,
And break upon thee in a flood of day.
No more the rifing Sun fhall gild the morn,
Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her filver horn;
But loft, diffolv'd in thy fuperior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The feas fhall wafte, the skies in fmoke decay,
Rocks fall to duft, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his faving pow'r remains;
Thy realm for ever lafts, thy own Meffiah reigns!
TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE
WHAT beck'ning ghoft, along the moon-light
Invites my step, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis fhe!-But why that bleeding bofom gor'd?
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly, tell,
Is it in heav'n a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a Lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reverfion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye elfe, ye pow'rs! her foul afpire
Above the vulgar flight of low defire?
Ambition first fprung from your bleft abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods!
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Moft fouls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull fullen pris'ners in the body's cage ;
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Ufelefs, unfeen, as lamps in fepulchres;
Like eaftern kings, a lazy ftate they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, fleep.
From thefe perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,
And fep'rate from their kind'red dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deferter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes muft roll no more. Thus, if eternal Juftice rules the ball,
Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall :
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates:
There paffengers fhall ftand, and pointing, fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way,)
Lo! thefe were they whofe fouls the Furies fteel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away;
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all whofe breaft ne'er learn'd to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.
What can atone, (oh, ever-injur'd shade!).
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rights unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear,
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier:
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What though no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy afhes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face!
What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful refts, without a ftone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot:
A heap of duft alone remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves muft fall, like thofe they fung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form shall part, And the laft pang fhall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle bufinefs at one gafp be o'er, The mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!
ODE ON SOLITUDE.+
HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound; Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
+ Written by our author at about twelve years old.
Whofe herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire ;
Whofe trees in fummer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blefs'd, who can unconcern'dly find.
Hours, days, and years flide foft away;
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.
Sound fleep by night; ftudy and cafe
Together mix'd; fweet recreation!
And innocence, which moft does please
Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
VITAL fpark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh, the pain, the blifs, of dying!
Ceafe, fond nature, ceafe thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life!
Hark! they whisper; angels fay,
Sifter Spirit, come away!
What is this abforbs me quite?
Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be death?