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17.98.

Of his bright god, with lofty fury raves,
Celestially disturb'd! till the strong flames,
That his whole soul to heavenly madness heat,
Have spent their blaze in all the rage of song!

Great conflagration! whose immortal fires,
With mystic, everlasting fewel fed,

Flame with a generous fury, flame to spread
Far other scene than smoking ruin round,
Fair flowers and smiling verdure, fields that wave
With yellow wealth, and boughs that stoop beneath
Their blushing load with affluence opprest!

Great Father of the system! round whose throne,
In filial circles all thy children shine,
Exulting in thy kind, paternal smile!
Well-order'd family! for ever free
From jarring strife; harmonious moving on
In easy dance; and calling human life
To list the music of your silent glide,
And make its social system chime like yours.
Preceptors sweet of concert and of love!
Had but this noisy scene an ear to learn.

Or is thy name, the student's sacred lamp,
Hung up on high, and trimm'd by Heaven's
By whose pure light, more precious to his eye,
Than that which trembles on his nightly page,
(Man's puny tome,) with silent joy he reads
The broad, instructive sheet, which thou hast held,
All wise instructor! to thy pupil man,
Through every age. Invaluable book!

In schools unrival'd, though but little read!

Fair, faultless piece! immortal work of Heaven!
Bible of ages! boundless word of God!
Writ in a language to all nations known;

And, through all time, with care divine, preserv'd
From all corrupt interpolations pure.

Or art thou Nature's eye, to whose keen sight
The system's utmost circle naked lies ?-
Oh, tell a curious mortal all thou seest!.

Say, by what various beings tenanted,

The orbs that borrow thy refulgent blaze;
Made of what matter; moulded to what form;
Blest with what organs; with what minds inform'd;
Spurr'd by what passions; on what arts intent;
Eager in what pursuits; and by what ties
Combin'd:-Oh, say, all-searching radiance, say
(For doubtless mortal and immortal all),

Taught

Taught by what discipline the generous love
Of beauteous Virtue; to what duties call'd;
By what temptations urged to act those deeds
Which stain thy day, and by what motives fir'd,
With moral splendours, to outshine thy beams.

Or wilt thou tell of thy revolving spheres,
Which wears the bays of genius? whose quick sons
Have shot, with farthest wing, into the field
Of Nature's works; or most sublimely soar'd,
On eagle pinions, to that parent-sun,
At whose eternal glories thine were lit?
Say, hast thou seen a creature's compass take
An ampler sweep over the dread immense,
Than that which turned obedient to the hand
Of him we Newton name, our earth's proud boast?
Or, in which world of this our neighbourhood,
Hath there been wav'd a wand of mightier call
Than our renown'd, immortal Shakespear mov'd
O'er Nothing's vast profound, and said, let be,
And, lo, it was! lo, a bright universe

Of great and fair, of transports, and of woes,
And charming fears! in bards or sages, say,
Which is the ball that bears away the prize.

FROST AT MIDNIGHT.

[From FEARS in SOLILUDE, &c. by S. T. COLERIDGE.]

TH

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HE frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud-and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and bill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! The thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not:
Only that film, which flutter'd on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature

Gives it dim sympathies with me, who live
Making it a companionable form,

With which I can hold commune. Idle thought!
But still the living spirit in our frame,
That loves not to behold a lifeless thing,
Transfuses into all its own delights,

Its own volition, sometimes with deep faith
And sometimes with fantastic playfulness.
Ah me! amus'd by no such curious toy
Of the self-watching subtilising mind,
How often in my early school-boy days
With most believing superstitious wish
Presageful have I gaz'd upon the bars,
To watch the stranger there! and oft belike,
With unclos'd lids, already had I dreamt

Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gaz'd I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lull'd me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Aw'd by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half open'd, and I snatch'd
A hasty glance, and still my heart leapt up,
For still I hop'd to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more belov'd,
My play-mate when we both were cloth'd alike!

Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this dead calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies

And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it fills my heart

With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,

And think, that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was rear'd
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander, like a breeze,
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
02

Himself

Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreasts sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while all the thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw: whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or whether the secret ministery of cold
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet moon,

Like those, my babe! which, ere to-morrow's warmth
Have capp'd their sharp keen points with pendulous drops
Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty
Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout,
And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms
As thou would'st fly for very eagerness.

D

ELEGY. SPRING-1796.

[From POEMS, by J. Hucks, A.M. &c.]

ELIGHTFUL Spring! I taste thy balmy gales Pregnant with life, my pensive soul they cheer, Creation smiles, the woods, the bills, the vales, Hail the gay morning of the dawning year.

Expand, ye groves, your renovated bloom, Warble, ye streams, ye swelling buds, unfold, Waft all the plenty of your rich perfume, And wave, ye florets, wave your locks of gold.

Rapt in the maze of nature's boundless charms,

I gaze insatiate, wonder and admire,

Ah! how they soothe th' impassion'd heart's alarms, And wake, to transport short, the woe-struck lyre.

But soon, the contrast blackens on the view, These scenes of beauty, man insensate mars, Clothes smiling nature with a mournful hue, Blasts all her bloomsand with their music jars

O! might

O! might the moral spring but once revolve Its infant blossoms, 'midst the noon-tide blaze; Barbaric passion's low'ring mists dissolve, While dawn'd pure reason, with serener rays.

O fool! to think it-winter, bleak and foul, There broods, eternal-hope creates, in vain, Fantastic forms, which please the cheated soul, Poor air-built fabrics of the poet's brain.

See! life and health enliven all around,
O'er lawns and woods the eye delighted roves:
While pour an artless harmony of sound,
Flocks from the fields, and warblers from the groves.

Luxuriant verdure, here, adorns the plain,

There

grey fail ows and the toiling team,

The farm's neat mansion, and the village fane, Whose moss-clad tower reflects the solar gleam.

But ah! while nature pours th' enlivening breath, Paints her fair forms, and spreads her treasures here O'er other shores, black sweeps the cloud of death, Glares the red falchion, and the murderous spear.

Ev'n now, perhaps, confronting armies meet, Loud roll the drums, the thundering cannons roar, Rocks the dire field beneath unnumber'd feet, And horror waves his locks bedropt with gore.

Thro' dust in whirlwinds driv'n, inconstant seen, Thick flash the swords, the frequent victim falls; While o'er his mangled trunk, and ghastly mien, Hosts trampling rush, where maniac fury calls.

Say, soldier! say, grim spectacle of pain, What syren lur'd thee from thy peaceful home; To leave thy poor, thy small domestic train, For toils of arms, o'er billowy deeps to roam.

No beams of glory cheer thy hapless lot,
Thy name descends not to a future age,
Impell'd to combat for thou knew'st not what,

And urg'd to slaughter by another's rage:

Thy widow'd wife, thine orphan children weep,

And beg their scanty meal from door to door,

While gash'd with wounds, thy limbs dishonour'd sleep, And waste and moulder on a foreign shore.

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