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Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt,

Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! Oh, matchless perfidy! portentous lust

Of monstrous crime!-that horror-striking blade,

Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid The noble Syracusan low in dust!

Shudder’d the walls,—the marble city wept,And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh;

But in calm peace the appointed victim slept, As he had fallen, in magnanimity:

Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change; too just

To his own native greatness, to desire That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. So were the hopeless troubles, that involved The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. Released from life and cares of princely state, He left this moral grafted on his fate,“ Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends."

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all :
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be call'd upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has join'd
Great issues, good or bad, for human kind,
Is happy as a lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need :
-He who though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans
To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:-
”T is, finally, the man who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity:-
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won;
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray ;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast :
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must go to dust without his fame,
And leave a dead, unprofitable name,
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause
This is the happy warrior; this is he
Whom every man in arms should wish to be.

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY

WARRIOR.

Who is the happy warrior ? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?

- It is the generous spirit who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care ;
Who, doom'd to go in company with pain,
And fear, and bloodshed, iniserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives;
By objects, which might force her soul to abate
Her feeling, render’d more compassionate ;
Is placable-because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
—'T is he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon thal law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He fixes good on good alone, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows :
-Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire
And in himself possess his own desire;

THE POWER OF VIRTUE.

All true glory rests, All praise of safety, and all happiness, Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes ; Tyre by the margin of the sounding waves; Palmyra, central in the desert, fell ! And the arts died by which they had been raised. -Call Archimedes from his buried tomb Upon the plain of vanish'd Syracuse, And feelingly the sage shall make report How insecure, how baseless in itself Is that philosophy, whose sway is framed For mere material instruments:- How weak Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropp'd By virtue."

Whither is fled the visionary gleam ! INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY,

Where is it now, the glory and the dream! FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :

The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
# The child is father of the man ;

Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And I could wish my days to be

And cometh from afar;
Bound each to each by natural piety."

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness, THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and spring,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come
The earth, and every common sight,

From God, who is our home;
To me did seem

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Apparell'd in celestial light,

Shades of the prison-house begin to close
The glory and the freshness of a dream.

Upon the growing boy ; It is not now as it hath been of yore;

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

He sees it in his joy :
By night or day,

The youth, who daily farther from the east The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

Must travel, still is nature's priest,
The rainbow come and goes,

And by the vision splendid
And lovely is the rose ;
The moon doth with delight

Is on his way attended ;

At length the man perceives it die away,
Look round her when the heavens are bare:

And fade into the light of common day.
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The sunshine is a glorious birth,—

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, But yet I know, where'er I go,

And, even with something of a mother's mind, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

And no unworthy aim, Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

The homely nurse doth all she can

To make her foster-child, her inmate man, And while the young lambs bound

Forget the glories he hath known, As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief;

And that imperial palace whence he came. A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

Behold the child among his new-born blisses,And I again am strong;

A six years' darling of a pigmy size! The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; | See, where 'mid work of his own hand, he lies, No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,

With light upon him from his father's eyes ! The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, And all the world is gay :

Some fragment from his dream of human life, Land and sea

Shaped by himself with newly learned art: Give themselves up to jollity,

A wedding or a festival,
And with the heart of May

A mourning or a funeral;
Doth every beast keep holiday ;-

And this hath now his heart,
Thou child of joy.

And unto this he frames his song: Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

Then will he fit his tongue
Shepherd-boy!

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call

But it will not be long Ye to each other made ; I see

Ere this be thrown aside, The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;

And with new joy and pride
My heart is at your festival,

The little actor cons another part, —
My head hath its coronal,

Filling from time to time his humorous stage' The fulness of your bliss—I feel—I feel it all.

With all the persons, down to palsied age,
Oh, evil day! if I were sullen,

That life brings with her in her equipage ;
While earth herself is adorning

As if his whole vocation
This sweet May-morning,

Were endless imitation.
And the children are culling
On every side,

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Thy soul's immensity;

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
I hear, I hear-with joy I hear !

Haunted for ever by the eternal mind ;-
But there's a tree, of many one,

Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
A single field which I have looked upon,

On whom those truths do rest, Both of them speak of something that is gone : Which we are toiling all our lives to find, The pansy at my feet

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Doth the same tale repeat:

Thou, over whom thy immortality

In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death, -
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves !
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight,

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 1. I love the brooks, which down their channels fret,

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet ; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality : Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Broods like the day,-a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by ;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction : not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still Huttering in his breast:

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise,
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings ;

Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised :

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,

To perish never ;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor man nor boy.
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy !

Hence, in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither,

Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

EVENING BY THE THAMES.

How richly glows the water's breast

Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west,

The boat her silent course pursues !
And see how dark the backward stream!

A little moment past so smiling!
And still, perchance, with faithless gleam,

Some other loiterer beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure ;

But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure

Till peace go with him to the tomb. And let hiin nurse his fond deceit,

And what if he must die in sorrow ! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? Glide gently thus, for ever glide,

O Thames ! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side

As now, fair river! come to me. O glide, fair stream! for ever so,

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow,

As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought !-Yet be as now thou art,

That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart,

How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such as did once the poet bless,

Who, murmuring here a later* ditty, Could find no refuge from distress

But in the milder grief of pity.

Then sing, ye birds! sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound !
We in thought will join your throng;

Ye that pipe, and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May !
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which, having been, must ever be ;

Collins's Ode on the Death of THOMSON, the last written of the poems which were published during his lifetime.

SCORN NOT THE SONNET.
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakspeare unlock'd his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd
His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp,
It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from faery land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains, -alas, too few.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ;
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

GREAT MEN.

A NATION'S POWER NOT IN ARMIES. Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd | The power of armies is a visible thing And tongues that utter'd wisdom-better none; Formal and circumscribed in time and space; The latter Sydney, Marvel, Harrington,

But who the limits of that power shall trace, Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. Which a brave people into light can bring These moralists could act and comprehend : Or hide at will,-for freedom combating They knew how genuine glory was put on; By just revenge inflamed ? No foot may chase, Taught us how rightfully a nation shone (bend No eye can follow, to a fatal place In splendour; what strength was, that would not That power, that spirit, whether on the wing Butin magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Within its awful caves. From year to year Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change !

Springs this indigenous produce far and near; No single volume paramount, no code,

No craft this subtle element can bind, No master spirit, no determined road;

Rising like water from the soil, to find But equally a want of books and men!

In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

MILTON.
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour ;
England hath need of thee; she is a fen
Of stagnant waters; altars, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again ;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea :
Pure as the naked heavens-majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

A VISION.
In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,
Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still;
And might of its own beauty have been proud,
But it was fashion'd and to God was vow'd
By virtues that diffused, in every part,
Spirit divine through forms of human art : [loud,
Faith had her arch-her arch, when winds blew
Into the consciousness of safety thrill’d;
And Love her towers of dread foundation laid
Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire
Star-high, and pointing still to something higher;
Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice—it said,
“Hell-gates are powerless phantoms when we build.”

TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men !
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den ;-
O miserable chieftain ! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow,
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind,

CHILDHOOD.
Air sleeps—from strife or stir the clouds are free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun.
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ;
The gentleness of heaven brood's o'er the sea :
But list! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear child! dear happy girl! if thou appear
Heedless—untouch'd with awe or serious thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine :
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshippest at the 'Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.*

Nor more, for aught that time supplies,
The great, the experienced, and the wise :
Too much from this frail earth we claim,
And therefore are betrayed.
We met, while festive mirth ran wild,
Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn,
Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave,
A sea-green river, proud to lave,
With current swift and undefiled,
The towers of old Lucerne.

LUlled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude nature's pilgrims did we go, From the dread summit of the Queent Of mountains, through a deep ravine, Where, in her holy chapel, dweils “Our Lady of the Snow.” The sky was blue, the air was mild ; Free were the streams and green the bowers; As if, to rough assaults unknown, The genial spot had ever shown A countenance that as sweetly smiledThe face of summer hours. And we were gay, our hearts at ease; With pleasure dancing through the frame We journeyed; all we knew of careOur path that straggled here and there; Of trouble-but the fluttering breeze; Of winter-but a name. If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days—but hush-no more ! Calm is the grave, and caliner none Than that to which thy cares are gone, Thou victim of the stormy gale ; Asleep on Zurich's shore ! Oh Goddard ! what art thou ?A sunbeam followed by a shade!

We parted upon solemn ground
Far-lifted towards the unfading sky;
But all our thoughts were then of earth,
That gives to common pleasures birth ;
And nothing in our hearts we found
That prompted even a sigh.
Fetch, sympathizing powers of air,
Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands,
Herbs moistened by Virginian dew,
A most untimely grave to strew,
Whose turf may never know the care
Of kindred human hands!

a name

* The lamented youth whose untimely death gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick William Goddard, from Boston in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided for some time with a elergyınan in the neighbourhood of Geneva for the completion of his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out on a swiss lour, when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, look leave of each other at niglit, the young men having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. Bit early in the morning my friend found his new acquaintances, who were informed of the object of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student became in consequence our travelling companions for a couple of days. We ascended the Righi together; and, after contemplating the sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva; but on the third gucceeding day (the 21st of August) Mr. Goddard pe. rished, being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard was cast ashore on the estate of the same gentleman, who generously performed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural monument to be erected in the church of Küsnacht, which records the premature fate of the young American, and on the shores loo of the lake the traveller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body was deposited by the waves,

Mount Righi-Regina Montium.

Beloved by every gentle muse, He left his transatlantic home : Europe, a realized romance, Had opened on his eager glance ; What present bliss !--what golden views ! What stores for years to come! Though lodged within no vigorous frame, His soul her daily tasks renewed, Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings High poised—or as the wren that sings In shady places, to proclaim Her modest gratitude. Not vain is sadly uttered praise ; The words of truth's memorial vow Are sweet as morning fragrance shed From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins bred; As evening's fondly lingering rays On Righi's silent brow. Lamented youth! to thy cold clay Fit obsequies the stranger paid ; And piety shall guard the stone Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resigned their preyAnd that which marks thy bed. And, when thy mother weeps for thee, Lost youth! a solitary mother ; This tribute from a casual friend A not unwelcome aid may lend, To feed the tender luxury, The rising pang to smother.*

The porsuasion here expressed was not groundless. The first human consolation that the afllicted mother felt, was derived from this tribute to her son's memory, a fact which the author learned, at his own residence, from her daughter, who visited Europe some years af. terwards.-Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the Mountain Rossberg.

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