Peace to her banish'd heart, at last,

In thy dominions shall descend,

And, strong as beechwood in the blast,
Her spirit shall refuse to bend;

Enduring life without a friend,

The world and falsehood left behind,

Thy votary shall bear elate,

(Triumphant o'er opposing Fate,)

Her dark inspired mind.

But dost thou, Folly, mock the muse

A wanderer's mountain walk to sing,

Who shuns a warring world, nor wooes

The vulture cover of its wing?

Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing,

Back to the fostering world beguiled,

To waste in self-consuming strife

The loveless brotherhood of life,

Reviling and reviled!

Away, thou lover of the race

That hither chased yon weeping deer!

If nature's all majestic face

More pitiless than man's appear;

Or if the wild winds seem more drear

Than man's cold charities below,

Behold around his peopled plains,

Where'er the social savage reigns, Exuberance of woe!

His art and honours wouldst thou seek

Emboss'd on grandeur's giant walls?

Or hear his moral thunders speak
Where senates light their airy halls,
Where man his brother man enthralls;

Or sends his whirlwind warrants forth

To rouse the slumbering fiends of war,

To dye the blood-warm waves afar, And desolate the earth?

From clime to clime pursue the scene,

And mark in all thy spacious way,

Where'er the tyrant man has been,

There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay;

In wilds and woodlands far away

She builds her solitary bower,

Where only anchorites have trod,

Or friendless men, to worship God,

STANZAS TO PAINTING.

O THOU by whose expressive art
Her perfect image Nature sees

In union with the Graces start,

And sweeter by reflection please!

In whose creative hand the hues

Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine;

I bless thee, Promethéan Muse !

And call thee brightest of the Nine!

Possessing more than vocal power,

Persuasive more than poet's tongue;

а

Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, a
From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung.

Does Hope her high possession meet?
Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown?

Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,
When all we love is all our own.

But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,

Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;

Lone absence plants a pang severe,

Or death inflicts a keener dart.

a Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on the wall, as he lay asleep.

VOL. II.