And Chance and Fate assume the rod,
And Malice blots the throne of GOD.

-O Thou, whose pleasing power I sing!
Thy lenient influence hither bring;
Compose the storm, dispel the gloom
Till Nature wears her wonted bloom,
Till fields and shades their sweets exhale,
And music swell each opening gale:
Then o'er his breast thy softness pour,
And let him learn the timely hour
To trace the world's benignant laws,
And judge of that presiding cause
Who founds in discord beauty's reign,
Converts to pleasure every pain,
Subdues the hostile forms to rest,
And bids the universe be blest.

O Thou, whose pleasing power I sing! If right I touch the votive string, If equal praise I yield thy name, Still govern thou thy poet's flame; Still with the Muse my bosom share, And soothe to peace corroding care. But most exert thy genial power On friendship's consecrated hour: And while my Agis leads the road To fearless wisdom's high abode; Or, warm in freedom's sacred cause, Pursues the light of Grecian laws; Attend, and grace our gen'rous toils With all thy garlands, all thy smiles. But if, by fortune's stubborn sway, From him and friendship torn away, I court the Muses' healing spell For griefs that still with absence dwell, Do thou conduct my fancy's dreams To such indulgent, tender themes As just the struggling breast may cheer, And just suspend the starting tear; Yet leave that charming sense of woe, Which none but friends and lovers know.

$294. The Pain arising from virtuous Emotions attended with Pleasure. Akenside.

-ВEHOLD the ways

Of Heaven's eternal destiny to man,
For ever just, benevolent, and wise:
That Virtue's awful steps, howe'er pursued
By vexing Fortune and intrusive Pain,
Should never be divided from her chaste,
Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge
Thy tardy thought through all the various round
Of this existence, that thy soft'ning soul
At length may learn what energy the hand
Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide
Of passion swelling with distress and pain,
To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops
Of cordial Pleasure? Ask the faithful youth,
Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego

That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes
With virtue's kindest looks his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture.-Ask the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village-walk
To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below
The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast
Some hapless bark; while sacred pity melts
The gen'ral eye, or terror's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
While every mother closer to her breast
Catches her child, and, pointing where the

waves

Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud, As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous

arms

For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down. O deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature given
To mutual terror and compassion's tears?
No sweetly-melting softness which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs,
To this their proper action and their end?-
Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight

hour,
[eye
Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing
Led by the glimm'ring taper, inoves around
The sacred volumes of the dead, the songs
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame
For Grecian heroes, where the present pow'r
Of heaven and earth surveys th' immortal page,
E'en as a father's blessing, while he reads
The praises of his son; if then thy soul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,
Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame:
Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view;
When rooted from the base, heroic states
Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown
Of curs'd Ambition ;-when the pious band
Of youths that fought for freedom and their
sires,

Lie side by side in gore ;-when ruffian pride
Usurps the throne of justice, turns the pomp
Of public pow'r, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To slavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes

Of such as bow the knee;-when honor'd urns
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust
And storied arch, to glut the coward race
Of regal envy, strew the public way
With hallow'd ruins! when the Muse's haunt,
The marble porch where wisdom, wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,
Or female superstition's midnight pray'r;-
When ruthless rapine from the hand of Time
Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow,
To sweep the works of glory from their base,
Till desolation o'er the grass-grown street
Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall,
Where senates once the pride of monarchs
doom'd,

Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds That clasp the mould'ring column;-thus defac'd,

Thus widely mournful, when the prospect thrills
Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car ;-
Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress? Or wouldst thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrows, for the lot
Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,
And bears aloft his gold-invested front,
And says within himself, "I am a king, [woe
"And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of
"Intrude upon mine ear?" The baleful dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorious draught
Of servitude and folly, have not yet,
Bless'd be th' Eternal Ruler of the world!
Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame
The native honors of the human soul,
Nor so effac'd the image of its sire.

$295. A Paraphrase on Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17. Miss Williams.

"The day is thine, the night also is thine; thou
"hast prepared the light and the sun.
"Thou hast set all the borders of the earth; thou
"hast made summer and winter."
My God! all nature owns thy sway,
Thou giv'st the night, and thou the day!
When all thy lov'd creation wakes,
When morning, rich in lustre, breaks,
And bathes in dew the op'ning flower,
To Thee we owe her fragrant hour;
And when she pours her choral song,
Her melodies to Thee belong!
Or when, in paler tints array'd,
The evening slowly spreads her shade;
That soothing shade, that grateful gloom,
Can, more than day's enliv'ning bloom,
Still ev'ry fond and vain desire,
And calmer, purer thoughts inspire;
From earth the pensive spirit free,
And lead the soften'd heart to Thee.

In ev'ry scene thy hands have dress'd,
In ev'ry form by Thee impress'd,
Upon the mountain's awful head,
Or where the shelt'ring woods are spread;
In ev'ry note that swells the gale,
Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale;
The cavern's depth, or echoing grove,
A voice is heard of praise, and love.
As o'er thy works the seasons roll,
And soothe, with change of bliss, the soul,
Oh never may their smiling train
Pass o'er the human soul in vain!
But oft, as on the charm we gaze,
Attune the wond'ring soul to praise;
And be the joys that most we prize
The joys that from thy favor rise!

§ 296. A Paraphrase on Isaiah xlix. 15. Miss Williams.

"Can a woman forget her sucking child, that "she should not have compassion on the "son of her womb? Yea, they may forget,

yet will I not forget thee."

HEAVEN speaks! Oh Nature, listen and rejoice!
Oh spread from pole to pole this gracious voice!
"Say every breast of human frame, that proves
The boundless force with which a parent loves;
Say, can a mother from her yearning heart
Bid the soft image of her child depart? [bear
She! whom strong instinct arms with strength to
All forms of ill, to shield that dearest care;
She! who with anguish stung, with madness
wild,

Will rush on death to save her threaten'd child;
All selfish feelings banish'd from her breast,
Her life one aim to make another's blest-
When her vex'd infant to her bosom clings,
When round her neck his eager arms he flings;
Breathes to her list'ning soul his melting sigh,
And lifts, suffus'd with tears, his asking eye!
Will she, for all ambition can attain,
The charms of pleasure, or the lures of gain,
Betray strong Nature's feelings? will she prove
Cold to the claims of duty, and of love?
But should the mother from her yearning heart
Bid the soft image of her child depart;
When the vex'd infant to her bosom clings,
When round her neck his eager arms he flings;
Should she unpitying hear his melting sigh,
And view unmov'd the tear that fills his eye;
Should she, for all ambition can attain,
The charms of pleasure, or the lures of gain,
Betray strong Nature's feelings- -should she
Cold to the claims of duty and of love! [prove
Yet never will the God, whose word gave birth
To yon illumin'd orbs, and this fair earth;
Who through the boundless depths of trackless
[grace;
Bade new-wak'd beauty spread each perfect
Yet when he form'd the vast stupendous whole,
Shed his best bounties on the human soul;
Which reason's light illumes, which friendship

space

warms,

Which pity softens, and which virtue charms;
Which feels the pure affections' gen'rous glow,
Shares others' joy, and bleeds for others' woe-
Oh never will the gen'ral Father prove
Of man forgetful, man the child of love!"
When all those planets in their ample spheres
Have wing'd their course, and 'roll'd their
destin'd years;

When the vast sun shall veil his golden light
Deep in the gloom of everlasting night; [skies;
When wild, destructive flames shall wrap the
When Chaos triumphs, and when Nature dies;
Man shall alone the wreck of worlds survive,
Midst falling spheres, immortal man shall live!
The voice which bade the last dread thunders
roll,

Shall whisper to the good, and cheer their soul.

If I have wander'd in those paths

Of life I ought to shun,

As something loudly in my breast
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st That thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their 'witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stepp'd aside,

Do Thou, All-Good! for such Thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

$300. Death. Emily.

THE festive roar of laughter, the warm glow Of brisk-eyed joy, and friendship's genial bowl,

Wit's season'd converse, and the liberal flow

Of unsuspicious youth, profuse of soul, Delight not ever; from the boisterous scene Of riot far, and Comus' wild uproar, From folly's crowd, whose vacant brow serene Was never knit to wisdom's frowning lore, Permit me, ye time-hallow'd domes, ye piles Of rude magnificence, your solemn rest, Amid your fretted vaults and length'ning aisles, Lonely to wander; no unholy guest That means to break, with sacrilegious tread, The marble slumbers of your monumented dead.

Permit me, with sad musings, that inspire

Unlabor'd numbers apt, your silence drear Blameless to wake, and with the Orphean lyre, Fitly attemper'd, soothe the merciless ear Of Hades, and stern death, whose iron sway Great nature owns through all her wide domain :

All with that oary fin cleave their smooth way Through the green bosom of the spawny main;

And those that to the streaming æther spread, In many a wheeling glide, their feathery sail; And those that creep, and those that statelier tread,

That roam o'er forest, hill, or browsy dale; The victims each of ruthless fate must fall; E'en God's own image, man, high paramount of all.

Some parent breast may heave the answering sigh
To the slow pauses of the funeral knell;
E'en now black Atropos, with scowling eye,

Roars in the laugh, and revels o'er the bowl; E'en now in rosy-crowned pleasure's wreath Entwines in adder folds all unsuspected Death.

Know, on the stealing wing of time shall flee Some few, some short-liv'd years, and all is past;

A future bard these awful domes may see,
Muse o'er the present age, as I the last;
Who mouldering in the grave, yet once like you
The various maze of life were seen to tread,
Each bent their own peculiar to pursue,

As custom urg'd, or wilful nature led :
Mix'd with the various crowd's inglorious clay,
The nobler virtues undistinguish'd lie;
No more to melt with beauty's heaven-born ray,
No more to wet compassion's tearful eye,
Catch from the poet raptures not their own,
And feel the thrilling melody of sweet re-

nown.

Where is the master-hand, whose semblant art Chisel'd the marble into life, or taught

From the well-pencil'd portraiture to start

The nerve that beat with soul, the brow that thought?

Cold are the fingers that in stone-fixt trance The mute attention rivetting, to the lyre Struck language; dimm'd the poet's quick-eyed glance,

All in wild raptures flashing heaven's own fire; Shrunk is the sinew'd energy, that strung The warrior arm. Where sleeps the patriot

breast Whilom that heav'd impassion'd? where the

tongue

That lanc'd its lightning on the tow'ring crest Of sceptred insolence, and overthrew Giant Oppression, leagued with all her earthborn crew!

These now are past; long, long, ye fleeting years, Pursue, with glory wing'd, your fated way, Ere from the womb of time unwelcome peers

The dawn of that inevitable day, [friend When, wrapt in shrouded clay, their warmest The widow'd virtues shall again deplore, When o'er his urn in pious grief shall bend

His Britain, and bewail one patriot more; For soon must thou, too soon! who spread'st Thy beaming emanations unconfin'd, [abroad Doom'd like some better angel sent of God

To scatter blessings over human kind, Thou too must fall, O Pitt! to shine no more, And tread these dreadful paths a Faulkland trod before.

Fast to the driving winds the marshall'd clouds
Sweep discontinuous o'er th` ethereal plain !
Another still upon another crowds,
All hastening downward to their native main

N

Thus passes o'er, through varied life's career, Man's fleeting age; the seasons, as they fly, Snatch from us in their course, year after year, Some sweet connexion, some endearing tie. The parent, ever-honor'd, ever-dear,

Claims from the filial breast the pious sigh; A brother's urn demands the kindred tear, And gentle sorrows gush from friendship's eye. To-day we frolic in the rosy bloom tomb. Of jocund youth-the morrow knells us to the Who knows how soon in this sepulchral spot Shall heav'n to me the drear abode assign? How soon the past irrevocable lot

Of these that rest beneath me shall be mine? Haply when Zephyr to thy native bourn [wave, Shall waft thee o'er the storm'd Hibernian Thy gentle breast, my Tavistock, shall mourn To find me sleeping in the senseless grave. No more the social leisure to divide,

In the sweet intercourse of soul and soul, Blithe, or of graver brow: no more to chide The ling'ring years impatient as they roll, Till all thy cultur'd virtues shall display, [day. Full-blossom'd, their bright honors to the gazing

Ah, dearest youth! these vows, perhaps unheard, The rude wind scatters o'er the billowy main: These prayers at friendship's holy shrine preferr'd, May rise to grasp their father's knees in vain. Soon, soon may nod the sad funereal plume

With solemn horror o'er thy timeless hearse, And I survive to grave upon thy tomb

The mournful tribute of memorial verse. That leave to heaven's decision-be it thine, Higher than yet a parent's wishes flew, To soar in bright pre-eminence, and shine

With self-earn'd honors, eager to pursue Where glory, with her clear unsullied rays, The well-born spirit lights to deeds of mightiest praise.

'Twas she thy godlike Russel's bosom steel'd

With confidence untam'd, in his last breath Stern-smiling. She, with calm composure, held The patriot axe of Sidney, edg'd with death. Smit with the warmth of her impulsive flame, Wolfe's gallant virtue flies to worlds afar, Emulous to pluck fresh wreaths of well-earn'd

fame

From the grim-frowning brow of laurell'd war. 'Twas she that, on the morn of direful birth,

Bar'd thy young bosom to the fatal blow, Lamented Armytage!-the bleeding youth! O bathe him in the pearly caves below, Ye Nereids! and ye Nymphs of Camus hoar, Weep for ye oft have seen him on your haunted shore.

Better to die with glory, than recline

On the soft lap of ignominious peace ; Than yawn out the dull droning life supine In monkish apathy and gowned ease.

• Placed.

Thick in the many-beaten road of life

A thousand maladies are posted round, With wretched man to wage eternal strife Unseen, like ambush'd Indians, till they wound: There the swoln hydrop stands, the wat'ry rheum, The northern scurvy, blotch with leprous scale; And moping ever in the cloister'd gloom

Of learned sloth, and bookish asthma pale; And the shunn'd hag unsightly, that (ordain'd On Europe's sons to wreak the faithless sword Of Cortez, with the blood of millions stain'd) O'er dog-eyed lust the tort'ring scourge abhorr'd

Shakes threat'ning, since the while she wing'd her flight

From Amazon's broad wave, and Andes' snowclad height.

Where the wan daughter of the yellow year,

The chatt'ring ague chill; the writhing stone; And he of ghastly feature, on whose ear Unheeded croaks the death-bird's warning

moan,

Marasmus; knotty gout; and the dead life
Of nerveless palsy; there, on purpose fell
Dark brooding, whets his interdicted knife

Grim Suicide, the damned fiend of hell. There too is the stunn'd apoplexy pight*, [foul; The bloated child of gorg'd intemperance Self-wasting melancholy, black as night [howl,

Low'ring; and foaming fierce with hideous The dog hydrophoby; and near allied, Scar'd madness, with her moon-struck eye-balls staring wide.

There, stretch'd one huge, beneath the rocky

minet;

He, the dread delegate of wrath divine, [fires: With boiling sulphur fraught, and mouldering Ere while that stood o'er Taio's hundred spires Vindictive thrice he wav'd th' earth-shaking wand,

Powerful as that the son of Amram bore, And thrice he rais'd, and thrice he check'd his hand.

He struck-the rocky ground, with thunderous

roar, [there Yawn'd! Here from street to street hurries, and Now runs, now stops, then shrieks, and scours amain,