« ПредишнаНапред »
Mortals, in vain ye hope to fiud,
Or saint to hear, or angel to defend."
Burst from the centre of her burning throne, Where aye she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd; A bright sun clasps her adamantine zone. So Truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear; With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear.
Attend, ye sons of men! attend, and say,
Say, does not reason in this form desery
Shall then your earth-born daughters vie
With me! Shall she, whose brightest eye But emulates the diamond's blaze,
Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,
Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume, Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,
Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,
Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day Shall pass, and she is gone: while ( appear Flush'd with the bloom of youth through heaven's
Know, mortals! know, ere first ye sprung,
Ere first these orbs in ether hung, I shone amid the heavenly throng:
These eyes beheld creation's day,
This voice began the choral lay,
Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birtir, Saw infant light with kindling lustre spread,
Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, And ocean heave on its extended bed; Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky; The tawny lion stalk; the rapid eagle fly. Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace, Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon bis face,
And, as he 'rose, the high behest was given,
“That I, alone, of all the host of heaven, Should reign protectress of the godlike youth. ** Thus the Almighty spake: he spake, and callid me
ODE TO THE MORNING.
BY THE SAME.
Hail to thy living light,
In varied beauty bright:
Away, ye goblins all! Wont the bewilder'd traveller to daunt; Whose vagrant feet have trac'd your secret haunt
Beside some lonely wall, Or shatter'd ruin of a moss-grown tow'r, Where, at pale midnight's stillest hour, Through each rough chink the solemn orb of night Pours momentary gleams of trembling light.
Away, ye elves, away!
Shrink at ambrosial Morning's living ray; That living ray, whose pow'r benign Unfolds the scene of glory to our eye,
Where, thron’d in artless majesty, The cherub Beauty sits on Nature's rustic shrine,
BY DR, COTTON.
Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd,
In folly's maze advance;
Nor join the giddy dance,
From the gay world we'll oft retire
Where love our hours employ;
To spoil our heartfelt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
And they are fools who roam :
And that dear but, our home.
Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
That safe retreat, the ark;
Explor'd the sacred bask.
Though fools sparn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience kuow, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below,
Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
Whence pleasures ever rise:
And train them for the skies.
While they our wisest hours engage,
And crown our hoary hairs:
And recompense our cares.