The walls around told all the pencil's power; There proud creations of each mighty hand Shone with their hues and lines as in the hour, When the last touch was given at the command Of the same genius that at first had plann'd, Exulting in its great and glowing thought: Bright scenes of peace and war, of sea and land, Of love and glory, to new life were wrought, From history, from fable, and from nature brought. With these were others all divine, drawn all From these fix'd visions of the hallow'd eye, And all the cold and low would seem to rise and burn. Theirs was devotion kindled by the vast, The beautiful, impassion'd, and refined; And in the deep enchantment o'er them cast, They look'd from earth, and soar'd above their To the bless'd calm of an abstracted mind, [kind And its communion with things all its own, Its forms sublime and lovely; as the blind, Mid earthly scenes, forgotten, or unknown, Live in ideal worlds, and wander there alone. Such were the lone enthusiasts, wont to dwell Where meaner spirits never dare intrude, As drawn from all the charms which in that valley meet. ROSSEAU AND COWPER. ROSSEAU Could weep-yes, with a heart of stone On its small running waves in purple dyed But his were not the tears of feeling fine Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow Was he but justly wretched from his crimes? Lifts the pure heart through clouds that roll be tween The earth and skies, to darken human hope? And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope? He too could give himself to musing deep, By the calm lake at evening he could stand, Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep On all its breast by not an insect fanned, And hear low voices on the far-off strand, Or through the still and dewy atmosphere The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand, From fronting shore and woody island near In echoes quick return'd more mellow and more clear. And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare, While on green turf made smooth without his care He wander'd o'er its stripes of light and shade, And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. 'Twas thus in nature's bloom and solitude He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage; 'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY. AND thou to whom long worshipp'd nature lends No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends, Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate; With deeds of virtue to embalm his name, The world recedes and fades like clouds of even, But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more bright, All intervening mists far off are driven; The world will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven. Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold: 'Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty; not, when all unrolled, Leaf after leaf its bosom rich and fair Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient [air. Wake thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy number'd hours Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite, And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd; Do something-do it soon-with all thy might; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself inactive were no longer bless'd. Some high or humble enterprise of good With thoughts all fix'd and feelings purely kind, Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. BURNS. To a rose, brought from near Alloway Kirk, in Ayreshire, in the autumn of 1822. WILD ROSE of Alloway! my thanks : Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough, And will not thy death-doom be mine- |