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Such as bound in magic spell
Him* who grasp'd the gates of Hell,
Genius of Horror and romantic awe,
Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep,
Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep,
Who shall now, sublimest spirit,
And now he lays his aching head
Mighty magician! long thy wand has lain
Buried beneath the unfathomable deep;
And oh ! for ever must its efforts sleep,
Oh yes, 'tis his!—Thy other son;
eyes, Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep Where round his head the volley'd lightnings
flung, And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, Wooed the stern infant to the arms of sleep. * Dante.
Or on the highest top of Teneriffe
Where far below the weather-beaten skiff
The death-sob, and, disdaining rest,
Then, Superstition, at thy call,
Where sleeps the silent beam of night,
Taste lastly comes and smoothes the whole,
The Poet dreams :—The shadow flies,
And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.
And as he sees the shadow rise,
Sublime before his wondering eyes,
THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.
RETIRED, remote from human noise,
A humble Poet dwelt serene;
Were manifold, I ween.
At eventide to ruminate,
He watch'd the swallow skimming round,
And mused, in reverie profound, On wayward man's unhappy state, And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of
“Oh, 'twas not always thus,” he cried,
“ There was a time, when Genius claimed Respect from even towering Pride,
Nor hung her head ashamed: But now to Wealth alone we bow,
The titled and the rich alone Are honour'd, while meek Merit pines, On Penury's wretched couch reclines, Unheeded in his dying moan, As overwhelm'd with want and wo, he sinks
“ Yet was the muse not always seen In Poverty's dejected mien,
Not always did repining rue,
And misery her steps pursue. Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced, By the sweet honours of poetic bays,
When Sidney sung his melting song,
When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng, And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays. Those days are gone—alas, for ever gone! No more our nobles love to grace
Their brows with anadems, by genius won,
But arrogantly deem the muse as base; How different thought the sires of this degenerate
the minstrel :-still at eve The upland's woody shades among In broken measures did he grieve,
With solitary song.
Neglect had stung him to the core;
And muse on all his sorrows o’er,
But human vows, how frail they be!
Fame brought Carlisle unto his view,
The Augustan age anew.
Regrets he'd sunk in impotence,
Ah! silly man, yet smarting sore,