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.
Far from the sun and summer-gale
In thy green lap was Nature's darling* laid,
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;
† 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.
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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