Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.
Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!
Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones
May lie or in the city's crowded bounds,
Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,
Or left a prey on some deserted shore

To the rapacious cormorant,—yet still,

(For why should sober reason cast away [spirit
A thought which soothes the soul?)—yet still my
Shall wing its way to these my native regions,
And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think
Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew
In solemn rumination; and will smile

With joy that I have got my long'd release.

29

FRAGMENTS.

THESE FRAGMENTS ARE HENRY'S LATEST COMPOSITIONS; AND WERE, FOR THE MOST PART, WRITTEN UPON THE BACK OF HIS MATHEMATICAL PAPERS, DURING THE FEW MOMENTS OF THE LAST YEAR OF HIS LIFE, IN WHICH HE SUFFERED HIMSELF TO FOLLOW THE IMPULSE OF HIS GENIUS.

THE CHRISTIAD,

A DIVINE POEM.

BOOK I.

I.

I SING the Cross!-Ye white-robed angel choirs, Who know the chords of harmony to sweep,

Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires

Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep, Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream

Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep,

Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream,
And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious

theme.

II.

state,

Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled [ground! Thy glittering fanes are levell❜d with the Fallen is thy pride!-Thine halls are desolate ! Where erst was heard the timbrel's sprightly sound,

And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, There breeds the wild fox lonely, and aghast

Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste.

III.

It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers
Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn
Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers,
While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn,
That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born;
And, with most bitter persecuting ire,

Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn Rose on his fortunes-and thou saw'st the fire That came to light the world, in one great flash expire.

IV.

Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light,
To paint the agonies that Jesus bore!

Oh! for the long-lost harp of Jesse's might, To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore ;

While seraph hosts the lofty pæan pour, And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim!

May a frail mortal dare the theme explore? May he to human ears his weak song frame? Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name?

V.

Spirits of pity! mild Crusaders, come! Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, And give him eloquence who else were dumb, And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! And thou, Urania! who dost still devote Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote, Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine, And clothe him for the fight with energy divine.

VI.

When from the temple's lofty summit prone, Satan o'ercome, fell down; and 'throned there, The Son of God confess'd, in splendor shone; Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair,

*

Fled the stern king of Hell-and with the

glare

Of gliding meteors, ominous and red,

[head.

Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his

VII.

Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent

His northering course, while round, in dusky state, [augment; The assembling fiends their summon'd troops Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they

went,

While, as they pass'd to regions more severe, The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud

lament

The solitary gale, and, fill'd with fear,
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near.

VIII.

Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around,

There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude,

Form a gigantic hall, where never sound. Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for [mound,

aye Thrones him, and, fix'd on his primæval Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay Stalks like some wo-struck man along the desert way.

IX.

In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair,

No sweet remain of life encheers the sight;