And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her mood Recalls the transformation of the flood, Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove, Earth cannot check. Of headstrong will! O terrible excess Can this be Piety? No,- some fierce Maniac hath usurped her name; XLV. LAUD.* PREJUDGED by foes determined not to spare, Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear On hope that conscious innocence supplied, * See Note. XLVI. AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND. HARP! couldst thou venture, on thy boldest string, Of dread Jehovah; then should wood and waste Off to the mountains, like a covering Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, O weep! PART III. FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMES. I. I SAW the figure of a lovely Maid Seated alone beneath a darksome tree, Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade. No Spirit was she; that my heart betrayed, But while I gazed in tender reverie, (Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played?) The bright corporeal presence,-form and face, Remaining still distinct, grew thin and rare, Like sunny mist; at length the golden hair, Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keeping pace II. PATRIOTIC SYMPATHIES. LAST night, without a voice, that Vision spake ; If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven restore The prostrate, then my spring-time is renewed, And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy. III. CHARLES THE SECOND. WHO Comes, That bigotry may swallow the good name, And, with that draught, the life-blood: misery, shame, By Poets loathed; from which Historians shrink! IV. LATITUDINARIANISM. Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind Charged with rich words poured out in thought's defence; Whether the Church inspire that eloquence, Or a Platonic Piety confined To the sole temple of the inward mind; And one there is who builds immortal lays, Though doomed to tread in solitary ways, Sad thoughts; for from above the starry sphere Come secrets, whispered nightly to his ear; And the pure spirit of celestial light Shines through his soul,-"that he may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight." V. WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES. THERE are no colors in the fairest sky So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an Angel's wing. With moistened eye We read of faith and purest charity In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen: Methinks their very names shine still and bright; Apart, like glowworms on a summer night; Or lonely tapers when from far they fling A guiding ray; or seen, like stars on high, Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. |