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Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled,
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields!
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air,
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,
Still in his beam Mendeli’s marbles glare;
Art, glory, freedom fails, but nature still is fair.”

Childe Harolder


Seen through the misty southem air,
What painted gleam of light is there,

Luring the charmed eye?
Whose mellowing shades of different dyes,
In rich profusion gorgeous rise,

And melt into the sky, ;

Higher and higher still it grows,
Brighter and clearer yet it shows,

It widens, lengthens, rounds;
And now that gleam of painted light,
A noble arch, confest to sight,

Spans the empyreal bounds!

What curious mechanician wrought;
What viewless hands, as swift as thought,

Have bent this flexile bow?
What seraph-touch these shades could blend
Without beginning, without end?

What sylph such tints bestow?

If Fancy's telescope we bring
To scan withal this peerless thing,
The Air, the Cloud, the Water-king,

'Twould seem their treasures joined;
And the proud monarch of the day,
Their grand ally, his splendid ray

Of eastern gold combined.

Vain vision hence! That will revere,
Which, in creation's infant year,
Bade, in compassion to our fear,

(Scarce spent the deluge rage,) Each elemental cause combine, Whose rich effect should form this sign,

Through every future age

O Peace! the rainbow-emblemed maid, Where have thy fairy footsteps strayed!

Where hides thy seraph form? What twilight caves of ocean rest? Or in what island of the blest

Sails it on gails of morn!

Missioned from heaven in early hour,
Designed through Eden's blissful bower

Delightedly to tread;
Till exiled thence in evil time,
Scared at the company of crime,

Thy startled pinions fled.

E’er since that hour, alas the thought! Like thine own dove who vainly sought

To find a sheltered nest; Still from the east, the south, the north, Doomed to be driven a wanderer forth,

And find not where to rest.

Till, when the west its world displayed
Of hiding hills, and sheltering shade,
Hither thy weary flight was stayed,

Here fondly fixed thy seat;
Our forest glens, our desart caves,
Our wall of interposing waves,

Deemed a secure retreat.

In vain from this thy last abode
(One pitying glance on earth bestowed)
We saw thee take the heaven-ward road,

Where yonder cliffs arise;
Saw thee thy tearful features shroud,
Till, cradled on the conscious cloud,
That, to await thy coming, bowed,

We lost thee in the skies.

For now the maniac-demon, War,
Whose ravings heard so long from far,
Convulsed us with their distant jar,

Nearer and louder roars;
His arm, that death and conquest hurled
On all beside of all the world,

Claims these remaining shores.

What though the laurel leaves he tear,
Proud round his impious brow to wear

A wreath that will no fade;
What boots him its perennial power-
Those laurels canker where they flower;

They poison where they shade.

But thou, around whose holy head
The balmy olive loves to spread,

Return, O nymph benign!
With buds that paradise bestowed,
Whence "healing for the nations" Aowed,

Our bleeding temples twine.

For thee our fathers ploughed the strand;
For thee they left that goodly land,

That turf their childhood trod;
The bearths, on which their infants played
The tombs, in which their sires were layed,

The altars of their God.

Then, by their consecrated dust,
Their spirits, spirits of the just!

Now near their Maker's face;
By their privations and their cares,
Their pilgrim toils, their patriot prayers,

Desert thou not their race.

Descend to mortal ken confest,
Known by thy white and stainless vest,
And let us, on the mountain crest

That snowy mantle see;
Oh let not here thy mission close,
Leave not the erring sons of those,

Who left a world for thee!

Celestial visitant! again

Resume thy gentle, golden reign, No, 1. Vol. III.


Our honored guest once more;
Cheer with thy smiles our saddened plain,
And let thy Rainbow, o'er the main,

Tell that the storms are o'er?


Mary, a vain, fæsumptuous muse,
No matter where, no matter whose,
With honest heart, and wish sincere,
For thee would hail the opening year.
For thee, yet not for thee alone,
A selfish motive too I own.
While fancy pictures to my view,
Just how you look, and what you do;
Lost to myself, her soothing power
Shall charm away a lonely hour:
To wish thee blest, shall bliss bestow,
And for the moment make me so.
Come then, sweet fancy, spread around
Thy scenes, with fairest pleasures crowned,
And as each various joy is shown,
Mary, I'll wish it all thy own.

Yet can it be, the rapid year,
Has wrought such change, since thou wast here?
With thee remembrance joins the scene
Of Summer smiling o'er the green,
Now Winter holds his angry reign;
All dead the flowers, all drear the plain.
Thus o'er my heart hath swept the blast,
And left of what it was the waste.
Winter, thy scenes, thy howling wind,
Suit well the temper of my mind;
As now thy icy hand has stayed
The stream, that murmured o'er the glade;
Breathe through my breast thy chill control,
And freeze te currents of my soul.
Blasted my lupes, my summer fled,
Oh, that my feelings too were dead.

Yet Winter, desolate and drear, Has still its joys, to virtue dear. The heart, forbid abroad to roam, Retires, and finds its bliss at home.

Such bliss, as once the Olny bard
Delighted sung, while Anna heard.
An Anna now inspires again;
But ah, no Cowper breathes the strain.
Around the cheerful evening fire,
May circling friends your breast inspire
With every joy, affection knows,
Whene'er in hearts, like thine, it glows.
Methinks I see the group complete;
With look so arch, and turn so neat,
There's Ann; and Sarah, o'er whose cheek,
Such Alying gleams of feeling speak;
Like the soft shades and lights, that pass
Quick o'er the undulating grass;
And e'er her tongue the word supplies,
The thought is looking from her eyes.
And Ellen too, sweet girl, is there,
In friendship to forget despair;
E'en her pale cheek bright smiles relume,
Like spirits waking from the tomb.
Now wit withi sportive sally plays,
And gaily all the circle sways;
And now the sober thought refined,
At once delights and mends the mind;
And now you're still as summer weather,
And now you're talking all together;
Or else perhaps some poet's song,
Or novel, charms the eve along.
The candle snuffed, the new stir'd blaze
Round the fresh forestick briskly plays;
Mark how the magic spell proceeds,
The rest at work, while Mary reads;
At first the busy needle stops,
Then down the work, neglected, drops;
Then glows the cheek with glad surprise.
Joy swells the breast, and melts the eyes;
Or down the tear of pity steals
For woes, that only fancy feels;
But not alone at fancied woe
Will the kind tear of Mary flow.
Her voice will soothe the sigh of grief,
Her hand extend the quick relief.
Oh may this bliss inspire her breast,
The bliss of making others blest.
Thus, Winter, let thy moments roll,
Sweet with such interchange of souls

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