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In climes beyond the solar road,

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight gloom,

To cheer the natives' dull abode.

And oft, beneath the odorous shade

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,

In loose numbers wildly sweet,

Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,

Glory pursues, and generous shame,

Th' unconquerable mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles that crown the Ægean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander's amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep,
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of Anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breath'd around,
Every shade and hallow'd fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latin plains,
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains;

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.

Far from the sun and summer-gale

In thy green lap was Nature's darling* laid,

* Shakspeare.

What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face; the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms and smil'd.

"This pencil take," she said, "whose colors clear
Richly paint the vernal year:

Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;

Of horror that, and thrilling fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears,"

Nor second he,* that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of ecstacy,
The secrets of th' abyss to spy.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time;
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,

Where angels tremble while they gaze,

He saw; but blasted with excess of light,

Closed his eyes in endless night!

Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

Two coursers of ethereal race,

Their necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.†

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-eyed fancy hov'ring o'er,

Scatters from her pictur'd urn,

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn!

But ah! 'tis heard no more

Oh lyre divine! what daring spirit

Wakes thee now! though he inherit

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion
That the Theban eagle bear,

Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air;

* Milton,

† Expressive of the majestic sound of Dryden's verse.

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,
With orient hues unborrow'd of the sun:

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,—

Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.

THANATOPSIS.-BRYANT.

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language. For his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Irto his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,—
Go forth unto the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice-

Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course. Nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, and be resolv'd to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thy eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone; nor could'st thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre! The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun; the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty; and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadow green; and, pour'd round all
Old Ocean's grey and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heav'n,
Are shining as the sad abodes of death,
Thro' the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce;
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save of his own dashings; yet,—the dead are there;
And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone!

So shalt thou rest! And what if thou shalt fall Unnotic'd by the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away,-the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles
And beauty of its innocence cut off-
Shall, one by one, be gather'd to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them!

So live, that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves

To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourg'd to his dungeon; but, sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams!

THE CHARMS OF HOPE.-CAMPBELL.

Ar summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountains turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

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