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To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure ? ask the faithful youth,
Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd
So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
That sacred hour when stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes
With virtue's kindest looks his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture.- -Ask the crowd
Which flies impatient from the village-walk
To climb the neighb'ring cliffs, when far below
The cruel winds have hurl'd upon the coast
Some helpless bark; while sacred pity melts
The general eye, or terror's icy hand

Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair,
While every mother closer to her breast

Catches her child, and pointing where the waves
Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud
As one poor wretch that spreads his piteous arms
For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,
As now another dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down: O deemest thou indeed
No kind endearment here by nature giv'n
To mutual terror and compassion's tears?
No sweetly melting softness which attracts,
O'er all that edge of pain, the social pow'rs
To this their proper action and their end?
-Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight hour,
Slow through that studious gloom thy pausing eye
Led by the glimm'ring taper moves around
The sacred volumes of the dead; the songs
Of Grecian bards, and records wrote by fame
For Grecian heroes, where the present pow'r
Of heaven and earth surveys th' immortal page,
Ev'n as a father blessing, while he reads,
The praises of his son; if then thy soul,
Spurning the yoke of these inglorious days,

Mix in their deeds and kindle with their flame;
Say, when the prospect blackens on thy view,
When rooted from the base, heroic states
Mourn in the dust and tremble at the frown
Of curst ambition; when the pious band
Of youths who fought for freedom and their sires,
Lie side by side in gore; when ruffian pride
Usurps the throne of justice, turns the pomp
Of public pow'r, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To slavish empty pageants, to adorn
A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of such as bow the knee; when honour'd urns
Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust
And storied arch, to glut the coward-rage
Of regal envy, strew the public way

With hallow'd ruins; when the muse's haunt,
The marble porch where wisdom wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,
Or female superstition's midnight pray'r;
When ruthless rapine from the hand of time
Tears the destroying scythe, with surer blow
To sweep the works of glory from their base;
Till desolation o'er the grass-grown street
Expands his raven-wings, and up the wall,
Where senates once the price of monarchs doom'd,
Hisses the gliding snake through hoary weeds
That clasp the mould'ring column; thus defac'd,
Thus widely mournful when the prospect thrills
Thy beating bosom, when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car;
Say, does thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress? or would'st thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot
Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd
Of mute barbarians bending to his nod,

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And bears aloft his gold-invested front,
And says within himself, "I am a king,

And wherefore should the clam'rous voice of woe
Intrude upon mine ear?"-The baleful dregs
Of these late ages, this inglorious draught
Of servitude and folly, have not yet
(Blest be th' Eternal Ruler of the world!)
Defil'd to such a depth of sordid shame
The native honours of the human soul,
Nor so effac'd the image of its sire.

HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID.-Sir Walter Scott,

When Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out from the land of bondage came,
Her father's God before her moved,
An awful guide, in smoke and flame.
By day along the astonish'd lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery pillar's glow.

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There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen ;
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,
With priests and warriors' voice between
No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone;

Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And thou hast left them to their own.

But present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.

And, oh! when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

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Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentiles' scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn.
But Thou hast said "The blood of goats,
The flesh of rams I will not prize;
A contrite heart, an humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice."

THE RESOLVE.-Sir Walter Scott.

(IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.)
My wayward fate I needs must 'plain,
Though bootless be the theme;
I loved, and was beloved again,
Yet all was but a dream:
For, as her love was quickly got,
So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask at flame so hot,
But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile

By flattering word, or feigned tear,

By gesture, look, or smile;

No more I'll call the shaft fair shot,

Till it has fairly flown,

Nor scorch me at a flame so hot-
I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow;
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's dart,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's

ray abides;

The flame its glory hurls about;
The gem its lustre hides.

Such gem I fondly deemed was mine,
And glowed a diamond stone;
But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.

Nor waking dream shall tinge my thought
With dyes so bright and vain;
No silken net, so slightly wrought,
Shall 'tangle me again;
No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
I'll live upon mine own;

Nor shall wild passion trouble it-
I'll rather dwell alone,

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest—
Thy loving labour's lost;
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,
To be so strangely crost.
The widowed turtles mateless die,
The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves-no more will I—
I'll rather dwell alone.

DARKNESS.-Byron.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless; and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went and came and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation: and all hearts
Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires-and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings-the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes

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