And o'er the path by mortal never trod, Sprung to her fource, the bofom of her God! Oh! lives there, Heav'n! beneath thy dread expanfe, One hopeless, dark Idolater of Chance, 296 Content to feed, with pleasures unrefin❜d, The lukewarm paffions of a lowly mind; Who, mould'ring earthward, 'reft of every trust, In joylefs union wedded to the duft, 300 Could all his parting energy difmifs, And call this barren world fufficient blifs ? There live, alas! of Heav'n-directed mien, Of cultur❜d foul, and fapient eye ferene, Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day, Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay ! 305 Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower, Whofe mortal life, and momentary fire, 310 Lights to the grave his chance-created form, Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, 315 320 Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep, To worlds unknown, and ifles beyond the deep? And wheel'd in triumph through the figns of Heav'n? Oh! ftar-ey'd Science, haft thou wander'd there, 325 To waft us home the meffage of despair? Then bind the palm, thy fage's brow to fuit, Ah me! the laurel'd wreath that murder rears, As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head. I fmile on death, if Heav'n-ward Hope remain ! But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithlefs charter of my life, 330 335 If Chance awak'd, inexorable pow'r ! This frail and fev'rish being of an hour, Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, Swift as the tempeft travels on the deep, This troubled pulfe, and vifionary brain! wild flowers, memorials of my doom! Fade, ye Truth, ever lovely, fince the world began, Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd, And that were true which Nature never told; 340 345 350 Let Wisdom fmile not on her conquer'd field No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd! 355 The doom that bars us from a better fate; But, fad as angels for the good man's fin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in! And well may Doubt, the mother of Difmay, Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay, 1 Down by the wilds of yon deferted vale, It darkly hints a melancholy tale ! There, as the homeless madman fits alone, In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan! And there, they fay, a wizard orgie crowds, When the moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds. 360 365 |