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O Lucifer! thou radiant star,

Son of the Morn, whose rosy car
Flamed foremost in the van of day;

How art thou fallen, thou King of Light,

How fallen from thy meridian height !

Who saidst the distant poles shall hear me and obey. High, o'er the stars, my sapphire throne shall glow, And as Jehovah's self, my voice the heavens shall bow.

He spake, he died: distained with gore,
Beside yon yawning cavern hoar,

See where his livid corpse is laid.
The aged pilgrim, passing by,

Surveys him long with dubious eye,

And muses on his fate, and shakes his reverend head.
Just Heavens! is thus thy pride imperial gone?
Is this poor heap of dust the King of Babylon?

Is this the man whose nod

Made the earth tremble? whose terrific rod
Levelled her loftiest cities? Where he trod
Famine pursued and frowned;

Till Nature, groaning round,

Saw her rich realms transformed to deserts dry;
While at his crowded prison's gate,
Grasping the keys of fate,

Stood stern Captivity.

Vain man behold thy righteous doom,

Behold each neighbouring monarch's tomb;
The trophied arch, the breathing bust,
The laurel shades their sacred dust;

While thou, vile outcast, on this hostile plain,
Moulder'st a vulgar corpse among the vulgar slain.

No trophied arch, no breathing bust,

Shall dignify thy trampled dust;

No laurel flourish o'er thy grave.

For why, proud king? thy ruthless hand

Hurled Desolation o'er the land,

And crushed the subject race, whom kings are born to save;

Eternal infamy shall blast thy name;

And all thy sons shall share their impious father's shame.

Rise, purple Slaughter! furious, rise;
Unfold the terror of thine eyes;
Dart thy vindictive shafts around;

Let no strange land a shade afford,

No conquered nations call them lord;

Nor let their cities rise to curse the goodly ground,
For thus Jehovah swears; no name, no son,
No remnant shall remain of haughty Babylon.

Thus saith the righteous Lord;

My vengeance shall unsheath her flaming sword;
O'er all thy realms my fury shall be poured.
Where yon proud city stood,

I'll spread the stagnant flood,

And there the bittern in the sedge shall lurk,
Moaning with sullen strain;

While, sweeping o'er the plain,
Destruction ends her work.

Yes, on mine holy mountain's brow,
I'll crush this proud Assyrian foe.
The irrevocable word is spoke.

From Judah's neck the galling yoke

Spontaneous falls; she shines with wonted state;

Thus by myself I swear, and what I swear is Fate.

MASON.

57.-GRONGAR HILL.

SILENT Nymph, with curious eye,
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man,
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale;
Come, with all thy various hues,
Come, and aid thy sister Muse.
Now while Phoebus riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky,
Grongar Hill invites my song,

Draw the landscape bright and strong;

Grongar, in whose mossy cells,
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,
For the modest Muses made,
So oft I have, the evening still,
As the fountain of a rill,
Sat upon a flowery bed,

With my hand beneath my head,

While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood,

From house to house, from hill to hill,

Till Contemplation had her fill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapours intervene;
But the gay, the open scene,
Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow;
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes:
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew;
The slender fir, that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs;
And, beyond the purple grove,

Haunt of Phillis, queen of love,
Gaudy as the opening dawn,

Lies a long and level lawn,

On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye.
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood;
His sides are clothed with waving wood;
And ancient towers crown his brow,
And cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both a safety from the wind
On mutual dependence find.

"Tis now the raven's bleak abode, "Tis now the apartment of the toad;

And there the fox securely feeds,
And there the poisonous adder breeds,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds;
While, ever and anon, there falls
Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls.
Yet time has seen, that lifts the low,
And level lays the lofty brow,
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state;
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run,
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun!
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and gay
To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,

When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky!
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower,
The town and village, dome and farm,
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Æthiop's arm.

See, on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;

So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass.
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,

Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way;
The present's still a cloudy day.
Oh! may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see!
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul;
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.
Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,

Now, even now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts! be great who will; Search for peace with all your skill; Open wide the lofty door,

Seek her on the marble floor:

In vain ye search, she is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of Care!
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain heads,
Along with Pleasure close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still,
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

DYER.

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