Back to its heav'nly fource thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rofe ; And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return.— Careers the fiery giant, faft and far, On bick'ring wheels, and adamantine car; Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the fun! So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd Her trembling wings, emerging from the world; E iiij 280 285 290 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 truft, 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, 305 Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower,, Whofe mortal life, and momentary fire, Lights to the grave his chance-created form, As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm; And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, 310 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? Or round the cope her living chariot driv❜n, 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 defpair? Then bind the palm, thy fage's brow to fuit, Ah me! the laurel'd wreath that murder rears, Blood-nurs'd, and water'd by the widow's tears, As waves the night-fhade round the fceptic head. I fmile on death, if Heav'n-ward Hope remain ! But, if the warring winds of nature's ftrife 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 fcene to fweep, Swift as the tempeft travels on the deep, 340 To know Delight but by her parting fmile, And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while; 345 And fink, ye ftars, that light me to the tomb! Truth, ever lovely, fince the world began, 350 Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd, And that were true which Nature never told; |