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Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see
The dear abode of peace and privacy;

And as he turns, the thatch among the trees,

The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze,
The village-common spotted white with sheep,
The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep,
All rouse reflection's sadly-pleasing train,
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again.)

So, when the daring sons of Science drew1 The mild Tupio's firm yet fond adieu, To all his soul best lov'd, such tears he shed, While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled: Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, Long watch'd the streaming signal from the mast; Till twilight's dewy tints deceiv'd his eye, And fairy forests fring'd the evening sky.

So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawn'd the day,* Rose on her couch, and gaz'd her soul away. Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering height That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light; But now the morn with orient hues pourtray'd Each castled cliff, and brown monastic shade;

All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring,

And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing!


As kindred objects kindred thoughts excite, These, with magnetic virtue, soon unite. And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the patriot's sigh; This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. For this Foscari, whose relentless fate4 Venice should blush to hear the muse relate, When exile wore his blooming years away, To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey, 1 When reason, justice, vainly urg'd his cause, For this he rous'd her sanguinary laws;

Glad to return, though hope could grant no more, And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore.

And hence the charm historic scenes impart : Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. Aerial forms, in Tempe's classic vale,

Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the gale; In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell,

And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell."

'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb,
We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom;
So Tully paus'd, amid the wrecks of Time,"
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
When at his feet, in honour'd dust disclos'd,
The immortal Sage of Syracuse repos'd.
And as his youth in sweet delusion hung,
Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung;
Who now but meets him musing, when he roves
His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves?

In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll
His moral thunders o'er the subject soul?

And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: We gaze on every feature till it lives!


Still the fond lover views the absent maid:
And the lost friend still lingers in the shade!
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep,
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep:
Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace
The father's features in his infant face.
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away,
Won by the charm of Innocence at play ;
He bends to catch the artless burst of joy,
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.

What though the iron school of war erase
Each milder virtue, and each softer grace;
What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest ;
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast;
Still shall this active principle preside,
And wake the tear to Pity's self denied.

The intrepid Swiss, that guards a foreign shore, Condemn'd to climb his mountain-cliffs no more, If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild9 Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguil'd, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: Say why Vespasian lov'd his Sabine farm,10

Why great Navarre, when France and Freedom bled, 11 Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed.

When Diocletian's self-corrected mind12

The imperial fasces of a world resign'd,

Say why we trace the labours of his spade,

In calm Salona's philosophic shade.

Say when ambitious Charles renounc'd a throne,1 3

To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown,

What from his soul the parting tribute drew?
What claim'd the sorrows of a last adieu ?
The still retreats that sooth'd his tranquil breast,
Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress'd.

Undamp'd by time, the generous instinct glows Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows; Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, On every form of varied life imprest. The social tribes its choicest influence hail : And, when the drum beats briskly in the gale, The war-worn courser charges at the sound, And with young vigour wheels the pasture round.

Oft has the aged tenant of the vale Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out the tale; Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breath'd, From sire to son with pious zeal bequeath'd. When o'er the blasted heath the day declin'd, And on the scath'd oak warr'd the wintry wind; When not a distant taper's twinkling ray Gleam'd o'er the furze to light him on his way; When not a sheep-bell sooth'd his listening ear, And the big rain-drops told the tempest near;

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