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Pale Famine moans with feeble breath,
And torture yells, and grinds her bloody teeth—
Though vain the Muse, and every melting lay
To touch thy heart, unconscious of remorse!
Know, monster, know, thy hour is on the way,
I see, I see the years begin their mighty course.

III. 3.

What scenes of glory rise Before my dazzled eyes! Young Zephyrs wave their wanton wings, And melody celestial rings: Along the lilied lawn the nymphs advance, Flush'd with love's bloom, and range the sprightly

dance: The gladsome shepherds on the mountainside ArrayM in all their rural pride Exalt the festive note, Inviting Echo from her inmost grot— But ah! the landscape glows with fainter light, It darkens, swims, and flies for ever from my sight

IV. 1.

Illusions vain! Can sacred Peace reside Where sordid gold the breast alarms, Where cruelty inflames the eye of Pride, And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure's arms? Ambition! these are thine: These from the soul erase the form divine; These quench the animating fire, That warms the bosom with sublime desire. Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel, Hate rides tremendous on tb/ o'erwhelming brow, And midnight Rancour grasps the cruel steel, Blaze the funereal flames, and sound the shrieks of Woe.

IV. 2.
iProm Albion fled, thy once-beloved retreat,
What region brightens in thy smile,
Creative Peace, and underneath thy feet
Sees sudden flowers adorn the rugged soil?
In bleak Siberia blows,

Waked by thy genial breath, the balmy rose?
Waved o'er by thy magic wand
Does life inform fell Lybia's burning sand?
Or does some isle thy parting flight detain,
Where roves the Indian through primeval shades s
Haunts the pure pleasures of the woodland reign,
And, led by reason's ray, the path of Nature treads?

IV. 3.

On Cuba's utmost steep* Far leaning o'er the deep The goddess' pensive form was seen. Her robe of Nature's varied green Waved on the gale: grief dimm'd her radiant eyes, Her swelling bosom heaved with boding sighs: She eyed the main; where, gaining en the view, Emerging from th' ethereal blue, 'Midst the dread pomp of war Gleam'd the Iberian streamer from afar. She saw; and on refulgent pinions borne Slow wing'd her way sublime, and mingled with the morn.

* Alluding to the discovery of America by the Spaniards under Columbus. These ravngers are supposed to have made: iheir first descent on ihe islands in the gulf of Florida, of which Cuba is cue.

TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY.

MEMORY, be still! why throng upon the thought
These scenes deep-stain'd with Sorrow's sable dye?
Hast thou in store no joy-illumined draught,
To cheer bewilder'd Fancy's tearful eye?

Yes—from afar a landscape seems to rise,
Deckt gorgeous by the lavish hand of Spring;
Thin gilded cloutis'floa* light along the skies,
And laughing Loves disport on fluttering wing.

How blest the youth in yonder valley laid! Soft smiles in every conscious feature play, While to the gale low-murmuring through the glade He tempers sweet his sprightly warbling lay.

Hail Innocence! whose bosom all ser.ene, Feels not fierce passion's raving tempest roll! Oh ne'er may Care distract that placid mien! Oh ne'er may Doubt's dark shades o'erwhelm thy Suul

Vain wish! for lo, in gay attire conceal'd Yonder she comes! the heart inflaming fiend! (Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield?) Swift to her destined prey see Passion bend!

O smile accurst to hide the worst designs! Now with blithe eye she wooes him to be blest, While round her arm unseen a serpent twines— And lo, she hurls it hissing at his breast!

And, instant, lo, his dizzy eye ball swims Ghastly, and, reddening, darts a threatful glare? Pain with stroug grasp distorts his writhing limbs, And Fear's cold hand erects his bristling hair!

Is this, O life, is this thy boasted prime?
And does thy spring no happier prospect yield?
Why gilds the vernal sun thy gaudy clime,
When nipping mildews waste the flowery field

How memory pains! Let some gay theme beguile
The musing mind, and soothe to soft delight.
Ye images of woe, no more recoil;
Be life's past scenes wrapt in oblivious night.

Now when fierce Winter, arm'd with wasteful power,
Heaves the wild deep that thunders from afar,
How sweet to sit in this sequester'd bower,
Ts> hear, and but to hear, the mingling war'

Ambition here displays no gilded toy
That tempts on desperate wing the soul to rise,
Nor Pleasure's flower-embroider'd paths decoy,
Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's gay disguise.

Oft has Contentment cheer'd this lone abode
With the mild languish of her smiling eye;
Here Health has oft in blushing beauty glow'd,
While loose-robed Quiet stood enamour'd by.

E'en the storm lulls to more profound repose: The storm these humble walls assails in vain; Screen'd is the lily when the whirlwind blows, While the oak's stately ruin strews the plain.

Blow on, ye winds! Thine, Winter, be the skies<>
Roll the old ocean, and the ^ales lay waste:
Nature thy momentary rage defies;
To her relief the gentler seasons haste.

Throned in her emerald-car see Spring appear I
(As Fancy wills the landscape starts to view)
Her emerald-car the youthful Zephyrs bear,
Fanning her bosom with their pinions blue.

Around the jocund Hours are fluttering seen;
And lo, her rod the rose lip'd power extends!
And lo, the lawns are deckt in living green,
And Beauty's bright-eyed train from heaven descend*!

Haste, happy days, and make all nature glad—
But will all nature joy at your return?
Say, can ye cheer pale Sickness' gloomy bed,
Or dry the tears that bathe th' untimely urn?

Will ye ono transient ray of gladness dart
'Cross the dark cell where hopeless slavery lies?
To ease tired Disappointment's bleeding heart,
Will all your stores of softening balm suffice?

When fell Oppression in his harpy-fangs
From Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel bears,
Can ye allay the heart wrung parent's pangs,
Whose fauiish'd child craves help with fruitless tears?

For ah I thy reign, Oppression, is not past.
Who from the shivering iimbs the vestment rends
Who lays the once-rejoicing village waste,
Bursting the ties of lovers and of friends?

O ye, to Pleasure who resign the day,
As loose in Luxury's clasping arms you lie,
O yet let pity in your breast bear sway,
And learn to melt at Misery's moving cry.

But hop'st thou, Muse, vain glorious as thou art,
With the weak impulse of thy humble strain,
Hop'st thou to soften Pride's obdurate heart,
When Errol's bright example shines in vain?

Then cease the theme. Turn, Fancy, turn thine eye, Thy weeping eye, nor farther urge thy flight j Thy haunts, alasl no gleams of joy supply, Or transient gleams, that flash, and sink in night.

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