And only less than HIM who marks their track,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop,
Or is there aught beyond? What hand unseen
Impels me onward thro' the glowing orbs
Of habitable nature, far remote,
To the dread confines of eternal night,
To solitudes of vast unpeopled space,
The desarts of creation, wide and wild;
Where embryo systems and unkindled suns
Sleep in the womb of chaos? fancy droops,
And thought astonish'd stops her bold career.
But oh thou mighty mind! whose powerful word
Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were,
Where shall I seek thy presence? how unblamed
Invoke thy dread perfection?
Have the broad eye-lids of the morn bebeld thee ?
Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion
Support thy throne ? O look with pity down
On erring, guilty man; not in thy names
Of terror clad; not with those thunders armed
That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appalled
The scatter'd tribes; thou hast a gentler voice,
That whispers comfort to the swelling heart,
Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker.
But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers
In flight so daring, drops her weary wing,
And seeks again the known accustomed spot,
Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams,
A mansion fair and spacious for its guest,
And full replete with wonders. Let me here,
Content and grateful, wait the appointed time,
And ripen for the skies: the hour will come
When all these splendors bursting on my sight
Shall stand unveiled, and to my ravish'd sense
Unlock the glories of the world unknown.
REST, rest, afflicted spirit, quickly pass
Thine hour of bitter suffering. Rest await thee
There where the load of weary life laid down,
The peasant and the king repose together.
Thus peaceful sleep; thy quiet grave bedewed
With tears of those that loved thee. Not for thee
In the dark chamber of the nether world,
Shall sceptre kings arise from burning thrones,
And point the vacant seat, and scoffing say,
'Art thou become like us? Oh, not for thee!
For thou hadst human feelings, and hast walked
A man with man; and kindly charities,
Even such as warm the cottage hearth, were thine :
And therefore falls the tear from eyes not used
To gaze on kings with admiration fond.
And thou hast knelt at meek religion's shrine
With no mock homage, and hast owned her rights
Sacred in every breast; and therefore rise
Affectionate for thee, the orisons,
And midnight prayer alike from vaulted domes,
Whence the loud organ peals, and raftered roofs
Of humbler worship: still remembering this,
A nation's pity and a nation's love
Linger beside thy couch, in this the day
Of thy sad visitation, veiling faults
Of erring judgment, and not will perverse.
Yet oh! that thou hadst closed the wounds of war!
That had been praise to suit a higher strain.
Farewell! thy years roll down the gulph of time;
Thy name has chronicled a long, bright page
Of England's glory; and perhaps the babe,
Who opens, as thou closest thine, his eye
On this eventful world, when aged grown,
Musing on times gone by, shall sigh and say,
Shaking his thin gray hairs, whitened with grief,
'Our fathers' days were happy.' Fare thee well,
My thread of life has even run with thine
For many a lustre, and thy closing day
I contemplate, not mindless of my own,
Nor to its call reluctant.
E who around this venerated bier
In pious anguish pour the tender tear,
Mourn not! 'Tis Virtue's triumph, Nature's doom,
When honoured age, slow bending to the tomb,
Earth's vain enjoyments past, her transient woes,
Tastes the long sabbath of well-earned repose,
No blossom here, in vernal beauty shed,
No lover lies, warm from the nuptial bed;
Here rests the fall of days,--each task fulfilled,
Each wish accomplished, and each passion stilled.
You raised her languid head, caught her last breath,
And cheered with looks of love the couch of death.-
Yet mourn! for sweet the filial sorrows flow, When fond affection prompts the gush of woe;
|