In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere

That gems the starry girdle of the year;

In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell,
Pure from their God, created millions dwell,

Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below,

We

yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ;

For, as Iona's saint, a giant form,

Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm

(When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined,

The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind), Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar,

From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore;

So, when thy pure and renovated mind

This perishable dust hath left behind,

Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,

Like distant isles embosom'd in the main ;

D

Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,

And light and life in mingling torrent ran; From whence each bright rotundity, was hurl'd, The throne of God,—the centre of the world!

Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasive Hope hath but a Syren tongue! True; she may sport with life's untutor❜d day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay,

The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,

And part, like Ajut—never to return!®

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage

The grief and passions of our greener age,

Though dull the close of life, and far away

Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day;

Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear,

The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,

With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,

And weep their falsehood, though she love them still!

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled,

The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child!
Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy
Smiled on his sire, and fill'd his heart with joy!
My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried!

Oh! that for thee thy father could have died!
For bloody was the deed, and rashly done,
That slew my Absalom!-my son!-my son!

Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!

Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!
Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day-
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,

The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!
Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,

It is a dread and awful thing to die!

Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun!

Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run,

From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,

Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God,

With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,

And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume

The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;

Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll

Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!