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Hear then benignly, nor refuse
When thus, from out the gloom profound Of intermingling branches, stole
A voice celestial, that my soul
"Well hast Thou done to court once more
No longer sacred now!-For here
And Contemplation mild.
The Spirits of the illustrious dead,
(Who joy'd in life, these haunts to tread,
Refulgent gems of elder time)
Disdaining now to hover nigh,
And seek their Skies sublime!
Haste Thou, the infatuate crouds to tell, Who yield them to the wizard's spell,
Too soon shall Circe's power deploreAround their temples let them twine, Like phrenzied Bacchanals, the vine, But laurels pluck no more!
From high we summon to our aid
Are hurl'd to Stygian Night!
Then England's Athens shall behold
A new Elysian Age of Gold,
Wisdom, from Schoolmen's chains, unbound, Science and Order rule again!
The Muses' and the Virtues' train
Shall sanctify the Ground!"
C. H. S.
By GEORGE GOODWIN.
Now o'er the hills the shades of Night are fled And pleasant is the Morn. The rising Sun Pours his faint radiance o'er the smiling fields And animates the scene. From every branch The wandering minstrels of the air are heard Hailing his orient beams.
But not to thee
Meek Spirit, not to thee the Morn is fair
Anticipation strew'd thy early path
With fairest flowers. Young Hope on golden wings
Of happiness to come ; and Love bestow'd
But there is ONE whom thou hast left behind,
To talk of thee, as round the fire we sit
And think on friends departed! He hath said,
A modest sweetness beam'd that touch'd the soul