Where weeping Genius views her luckless child, Virtue oppressed, that stoops not to repine, Whose brow appears th' unshaken throne of Truth; Around whose heart is wove in many a twine The fond affections of his early youth, Treads the lone scenes, sweet haunt of happier days, Alas! on him no eye with transport beams, Angels of mercy! hallowed sons of light! 1 Ye fly eternity, where bliss sublime Smiles amid groves where living fountains flow, To still the storms that shake the darkened clime, Where virtue struggles on the tide of woe; That joyless clime where youth's warm generous soul Sees Hope expire at Disappointment's goal. Oh as ye fly, some bright refulgent star, Oh as o'er midnight's azure dome ye sweep, Your harpstrings glittering in the moon's pure beam, In Slumber's dew the eye of Sorrow steep, And banish Care in Fancy's golden dream; While your bright wings wave o'er the sacred dell Where Grief and Solitude delight to dwell. With Care's deep lines traced on his pallid brow, That bends its branches o'er her lonely tomb; Ab still he views her lovely fragile form, Bows to the wind that tears its withering bloom: While Death's dark scenes meet frenzied Memory's view, Starting, he seems to hear the heart-wrung sigh, Convulsive mingled with the faint adieu, As Love's last beam shone in the closing eye; Ere the pure spirit fled its dark abode, And soared exulting to the throne of God. Vain is the hope that Pleasure's dazzling blaze The child of sorrow to her magic bower! Lures the lost wanderer thro' the deepening gloom; Till faint it dies on the dark river's wave, In whose cold breast the pilgrim finds a grave. To thee, oh Solitude, the breaking heart That shivering withers in the grasp of Care, May all the story of its woe impart, And breath the grief-taught accents of Despair; Till softer sighs th' unburthen'd bosom breathes, Soothed by the silence of thy hallowed grove, Soft as the gales that fan immortal wreaths, Oh could I find thee in some hermit cell, Its mossy dome moist with the tears of Even, Where Nature wears the majesty of Heaven! Throned on the summit of the cliff sublime, Which rose majestic at the birth of time. Oh I would scale the rugged steep with thee, Mid whose wild columns waves the twisting thorn, When Night, pale spectre! from the misty sea Mounts her dim cloud, and fleets before the morn; And when the glorious majesty of light Waves his receding banners o'er the world, And the pure star that binds the zone of Night, Gilds angel-pinions o'er her throne unfurled! Mid scenes like these, Faith o'er Life's ocean soars, And breasts the tide that laves eternal shores. ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF SIR RALPH ABERCROMBY, K.B: BY THE REV. D. W. DAVIES, B. A. LATE, where yon rugged cliff in towering pride Her azure robe, her ægis, and her spear, Proclaim'd her Guardian-Angel of our isle: Her stedfast look express'd nor grief, nor fear, Nor yet was mark'd with Joy's exulting smile: Deep-felt solicitude appear'd impress'd On every feature, as on every thought, While she revolv'd within her anxious breast The fate of those who for her glory fought. |