Oft when the winter-storm had ceased to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue: Where 'midst the changeful scenery ever new Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries More wildly great than ever pencil drew, Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant-size, And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,
Listening with pleasing dread to the deep roar
Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array
When sulphur'ous clouds roll'd on the vernal day,
Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,
Along the trembling wilderness to stray,

What time the lightning's fierce career began, [ran. And o'er Heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder

Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all

In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd,
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,

From the rude gambol far remote reclin'd,
Sooth'd with the soft notes warbling in the wind.
Ah then, all jollity seem'd noise and folly.
To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refin'd,

Ah what is mirth but turbulence unholy, [choly! When with the charm compar'd of heavenly melan.

Is there a heart that music cannot melt?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!

Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn. The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish page; or mourn, And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine; [swine. Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton

For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd;
Song was his favorite and first pursuit.

The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand,
And languish'd to his breast the plaintive flute.
His infant muse, tho' artless was not mute:
Of elegance as yet he took no care;

For this of time and culture is the fruit;
And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare:
As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful, or new,
Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky;
By chance, or search, was offer'd to his view,
He scann'd with curious and romantic eye.
Whate'er of lore tradition could supply
From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old,
Rous'd him, still keen to listen and to pry.
At last, tho' long by penury control'd,
And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold.

Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,
And in their northern cave the storms are bound;
From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo,
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;
Pure rills thro' vales of verdure warbling go;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'er-
flow.*

Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while.
The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim.
But if ***** on this labor smile,

New strains ere long shall animate thy frame,

*Spring and Autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the sun enters Cancer, their fields, which a week before were covered with snow, appear on a sudden full of grass and flowers. Scheffer's History of Lapland. p. 16.

And his applause to me is more than fame;
For still with truth accords his taste refin'd.
At lucre or renown let others aim,

I only wish to please the gentle mind,

Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of humankind.

BOOK II.

OF

F chance or change O let not man complain, Else shall he never, never cease to wail: For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel th' assault of fortune's fickle gale; Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd; Earthquakes have rais'd to heaven the humble vale, And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd, And where the Atlantic rolls, wide continents have bloom'd.*

But sure to foreign climes we need not range,
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of tine and change,
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.
Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face,
Or hoary hair, I never will repine:

But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace,
Of candor, love, or sympathy divine,

Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame is mine,

See Plato's Timeus.

So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command, Shall here without reluctance change my lay, And smite the Gothic lyre with harsher hand; Now when I leave that flowery path for aye Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song.

"Perish the lore that deadens young desire," Is the soft tenor of my song no more. Edwin, tho' lov'd of Heaven, must not aspire To bliss which mortals never knew before. On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy ; But now and then the shades of life explore, Tho' many a sound and sight of woe annoy, And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy.

Vigor from toil, from trouble patience grows. The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower, Some tints of transient beauty may disclose; But, ah! it withers in the chilling hour. Mark yonder oaks! superior to the power Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise, And from the stormy promontory tower, And toss their giant arms amid the skies, While each assailing blast increase of strength supplies.

And now the downy cheek and deepen'd voice Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime; And walks of wider circuit were his choice, And vales more wild, and mountains more sublime. One evening as he framed the careless rhyme, It was his chance to wander far abroad, And o'er a lonely eminence to climb, Which heretofore his foot had never trode; A vale appear'd below, a deep retir'd abode.

Thither he hied, enamour'd of the seene; For rocks on rocks pil'd, as by magic spell, Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green, Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell; Southward a mountain rose with easy swell, Whose long long groves eternal murmur made; And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, Where, thro' the cliffs, the eye, remote survey'd Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd.

Along this narrow valley you might see

The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground, And here and there, a solitary tree,

Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crown'd. Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound

Of parted fragments tumbling from on high; And from the summit of that craggy mound The perching eagle oft was heard to cry, Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky.

One cultivated spot there was, that spread Its flowery bosom to the noon-day beam, Where many a rose-bud rears its blushing head, And herbs for food with future plenty teem. Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream, Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul: He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam, Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll ;When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole.

"Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, "And woo the weary to profound repose; "Can Passon's wildest uproar lay to rest, "And whisper comfort to the man of woes! "Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, "And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. "O Solitude, the man who thee foregoes, "When lucre lures him, or ambition stings, [springs. "Shall never know the source whence real grandeur