Fly, like the moon-ey'd herald of dismay,
Chas'd on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er-the pangs of Nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of Heav'n undazzled by the blaze,
On heav'nly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy tow'rs of Zion hill!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead!

Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?

Back to its heav'nly source thy being goes,

Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose;
Doom'd on his airy path a while to burn,

And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return.-
Hark! from the world's exploding centre driv'n,
With sounds that shook the firmament of Heav'n,
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,

On bick'ring wheels, and adamantine car;
From planet whirl'd to planet more remote,
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought;
But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run,
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!
So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd

Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;
And o'er the path by mortal never trod,

Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!

Oh! lives there, Heav'n! beneath thy dread expanse,

One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance,

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefin’d,

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;

Who, mould'ring earthward, 'reft of every trust,

In joyless union wedded to the dust,

Could all his parting energy dismiss,

And call this barren world sufficient bliss?

There live, alas! of Heav'n-directed mien,

Of cultur'd soul, and sapient eye serene,
Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay!
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower!
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire,

Lights to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;

And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To Night and Silence sink for evermore!—

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame?
Is this your triumph-this your proud applause,
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?
For this hath Science search'd, on weary wing,
By shore and sea-each mute and living thing?
Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep,

To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?

Or round the cope her living chariot driv'n,

And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of Heav'n?

Oh! star-ey'd Science, hast thou wander'd there,
To waft us home the message of despair?

Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!
Ah me! the laurel'd wreath that murder rears,
Blood-nurs'd, and water'd by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,

As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain?

I smile on death, if heav'n-ward Hope remain!
But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife

Be all the faithless charter of my life,

If Chance awak'd, inexorable pow'r!

This frail and fev'rish being of an hour,

Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep,

Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,