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Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock,
He rose up and laid
12. “Where is the lamb, my father ?"-oh the tones,
On Early Rising:
2. Give to repose the solemn hour she claims;
Nature and Poetry favorable to virtue.-Humility recom
mended in judging of the ways of Providence.
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new;
To sing thy glories with devotion due!
Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew,
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!
Amused my childhood, and informed my youth.
O let your spirit still my bosom soothe,
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth,
For well I know wherever ye reside,
3. Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain,
As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore;
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.
Then, as instructed by tradition hoar,
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,
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,
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,
The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce.
O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce
For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse,
To latest times shall tender souls bemoan
6. Behold, with berries smeared, with brambles torn,
The babes now famished, lay them down to die:
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
Brightened one moment Edwin's starting tear:
And innocence thus die by doom severe ?"
O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere,
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;
This soften and refine the soul for heaven.
Allasion to Shakspeare
What is't ye do?
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,
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;
If but that little part incongruous seem.
Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem;
O then renounce that impious self esteem,
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies;
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,
Yesterday his name
O how weak
O it is strange,
He should know