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Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock,
Abides the tempest,

He rose up and laid
The wood upon the altar. All was done,
He stood a moment—and a deep, quick flush
Pass'd o'er his countenance; and then he nerv'd
His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke-
“Isaac ! my only son”—The boy look'd up,
And Abraham turn’d his face away, and wept.

12. “Where is the lamb, my father ?"-oh the tones,
The sweet, the thrilling music of a child!
How it doth agonize at such an hour!
It was the last, deep struggle—Abraham held
His lov'd his beautiful, his only son,
And lifted up his arm, and callid on God-
And lo! God's Angel staid him-and he fell
Upon his face and wept.





On Early Rising:
1. The breath of night's destructive to the hue
Of every flower that blows. Go to the field,
And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps,
Soon as the sun departs: Why close the eyes
Of blossoms infinite, ere the still moon
Her oriental veil puts off? Think why,
Nor let the sweetest blossom be exposed
That nature boasts, to night's unkindly damp:
Well may it droop, and all its-freshness lose,
Compelled to taste the rank and poisonous steam
Of midnight theater, and morning ball.

2. Give to repose the solemn hour she claims;
And, from the forehead of the morning, steal
The sweet occasion. O! there is a charm
That morning has, that gives the brow of age
A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth
Breathe perfumes exquisite. Expect it not,
Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie,
Indulging feverish sleep, or wakeful dream
Of happiness no mortal heart has felt,
But in the regions of romance.

Ye fair,

Like you it must be wooed, or never won:
And, being lost, it is in vain


For milk of roses and Olympian dew.
Cosmetic art no tincture can afford,
The faded features to restore: no chain
Be it of gold, and strong as adamant,
Can fetter beauty to the fair one's will.



Nature and Poetry favorable to virtue.-Humility recom

mended in judging of the ways of Providence.
1. O NATURE, how in every charm supreme!

Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new;
O for the voice and fire of seraphim,

To sing thy glories with devotion due!

Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew,
From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty;

And held high converse with the godlike few,

Who, to th' enraptured heart, and ear, and eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.

2. Then hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,

Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth!
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,

Amused my childhood, and informed my youth.

O let your spirit still my bosom soothe,
Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide:

Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth,

For well I know wherever ye reside,
There harmony, and peace, and innocence abide.

3. Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain,

As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore;
Save when, against the winter's drenching rain,

And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.

Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,
Her legend when the beldam ’gan impart,

Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,
Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart:
Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art.

4. Various and strange was the long-winded tale ;

And halls, and knights and feats of arms displayed; Or merry swains who quaff the nut-brown ale,

And sing, enamored of the nut-brown maid,

The moonlight revel of the fairy glade,
Or hags that suckle an infernal brood,

And ply in caves th’ unutterable trade, *

'Midst fiends and specters, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood.

5. But when to horror his amazement rose,

A gentler strain the beldam would rehearse,
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,

The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.

O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce
That heart, by lust of lucre seared to stone?

For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,

To latest times shall tender souls bemoan
Those hopeless orphan-babes, by thy fell arts undone.

6. Behold, with berries smeared, with brambles torn,

The babes now famished, lay them down to die:
Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn,

Folded in one another's arms they lie;

Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry: “For from the town the man returns no more."

But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy,

This deed, with fruitless tears, shalt soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy

7. A stifled smile of stern, vindictive joy,

Brightened one moment Edwin's starting tear:
"But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy,

And innocence thus die by doom severe ?"

O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,
Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel:

Dark, even at noontide, is our mortal sphere;.

But, let us hope ;-to doubt is to rebel ; Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.

8. Nor be thy generous indignation check’d,

Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given;
From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect,

This soften and refine the soul for heaven.
But dreadful is their doom whom doubt has driven

Allasion to Shakspeare
Macbeth.--How now, ve secret, black, and midnight hugs,

What is't ye do?
Witches. - A deed without a name.

Macbeth.-(Act. IV. soene I.

$ See the finc old ballad, called The Children in the Wooch

To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego:

Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven,

Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of wo.

9. Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age,

Scarce fill the circle of one summer's day,•Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage,

Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay

If but a cloud obscure the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend!

Or shall frail man heaven's high decree gainsay

Which bade the series of events extend, Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end !

10. One part, one little part, we dimly scan,

Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream;
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,

If but that little part incongruous seem.

Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem;
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise.

O then renounce that impious self esteem,

That aims to trace the secrets of the skies;
For thou art but of dust ;-be humble, and be wise.



Human Frailty. 1. What are our joys but dreams? And what our hopes But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ? There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it Some rainbow promise-Not a moment flies, But puts its sickle in the fields of life, And mows its thousands, with their joys and careş. 'Tis but as yesterday, since on yon stars Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd gaz'd In his mid-watch, observant, and dispos’d The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 2. Yet in the interim, what mighty shocks Have buffeted mankind-whole nations raz'd Cities made desolate-the polish'd sunk To barbarism, and once barbaric states Swaying the wand of science and of arts; Nlustrious deeds and memorable names Blotted from record, and upon the tongue Of gray tradition voluble no more.

3. Where are the heroes of the ages past,
Where the brave chieftains,—where the mighty ones
Who flourished in the infancy of days ?-
All to the grave gone down!-On their fall’n fame
Exultant, mocking at the pride of man,
Sits grim Forgetfulness. - The warrior's arm
Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame;
Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze
Of his red eye-ball.

Yesterday his name
Was mighty on the earth-To-day— tis what?
The meteor of the night of distant years,
That flash'd unnotic'd, save by wrinkled eld,
Musing at midnight upon prophecies,
Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam
Point to the mist-pois'd shroud, then quietly
Clos'd her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up,
Safe in the charnel's treasures.

O how weak
Is mortal man ! How trifling-how confin'd
His scope of vision !-Puff?d with confidence,
His phrase grows big with immortality;
And he, poor insect of a summer's day,
Dreams of eternal honors to his name,
Of endless glory, and perennial bays.
He idly reasons of eternity,
As of the train of ages,—when, alas !
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries
Are, in comparison, a little point,
Too trivial for account.

O it is strange,
'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies
Behold him proudly view. some pompous pile
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies,
And smile and say, my name shall live with this
Till Time shall be no more;-while at his feet
Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust
Of the fall’n fabric of the other day
Preaches the solemn lesson

He should know
That time must conquer,—that the loudest blast
That ever fill'd Renown's obstrep'rous trump
Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires.
Who lies inhum'd in the terrific gloom
Of the gigantic pyramid? Or who
Rear'd its huge wall ?-Oblivion laughs and says

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