CHAP. XIV.

ODE TO TRUTH.

SAY, will no white-rob’d Son of Light,
Swift darting from his heav'nly height,

Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;
Here wave his amber locks; unfold

His pinions cloth'd with downy gold; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand? And you, ye host of Saints, for

ye

have known Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,

Though now ye circle yon eternal throne, With harpings high of inexpressive praise,

Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with Mercy's beam this gath'ring cloud of Fate:

'Tis silence all. No Son of Light Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height:

No train of radiant Saints descend.

Mortals, in vain ye liope to find, “ If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind, “ Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend.”.

So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound 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

pause it slowly meets my ear “ Attend, ye Sons of Men ; attend, and say, “ Does not enough of my refulgent ray “ Break through the veil of your mortality ?

Say, does not Reason in this form descry “ Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass “ The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace ?

“ Shall then your earth-born daughters vie
“ With me? Shall she, whose brightest eye

“ But emulates the di'mond's blaze,
“ Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,

“ Whose breath the hyacinth's perfume, “ Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,

many a solemn

“ 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 I appear • Flush'd with the bloom of youth through Heav'n's eternal

year. & Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung, w Ere first these orbs in ether hung,

“ I shone amid the heav'nly throng; 66 These

eyes

beheld Creation's day, “ This voice began the choral lay, “ And taught archangels their triumphant song.

“ Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth, “ Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread,

“ Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, “ And Ocean heave on it's extended bed

“ Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky, 6. The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly.

Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace, “ Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face ;

And, as he rose, the high behest was given “ That I alone, of all the host of Heav'n, “ Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth : « Thus the Almighty spake : he spake and calld me Trutlı."

MASON.

CHAP. XV.

ODE TO FANCY.

O PARENT of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flow’rs and honey from the rock.

O Nymph with loosely flowing hair, With buskin’d leg, and bosom bare, Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd, Waving in thy snowy hand An all commanding magic wand ; Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow. Whose rapid wings thy flight convey Through air, and over earth and sea, While the various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes ; O lover of the desert, bail! Say in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, 'Midst falls of water you réside, 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green

Me, Goddess, by the right hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-rob’d Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each ev'ning meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads,
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Lisťning to the shepherd's song.

Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ:
Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms and sigh!
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of wo,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some Virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek;
Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold winter's show'rs,
The naked beggar shiv’ring lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tott'ring wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I fcel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat!
The trumpet's clangors pierce mine ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear;
“ Give me another horse!" I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage ?- Wbat spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
"Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war,

There whirls me o'er the bills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead :
Where giant Terrour stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon shield !

O guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun;
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss.

When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose ;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine bis jolly cheeks,
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold,
At ev'ry season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.

O warm, enthusiastic Maid,
Without thy pow'rful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line;
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallow'd strain,
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bidst one sing.

O hear our pray’r! O bither come
From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb!
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling grave;
() Queen of numbers ! once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who, filld with unexhausted fire,
May boldly strike the sounding lyre,