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Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,

And gaze upon the sea ;
That element may meet thy smile,

It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand
In loitering mood upon the sand

That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.

15. Thou Timour! in his captive's cage (5)

What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison'd rage?

But one-" The world was mine:”
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,

Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!


Or like the thief of fire from heaven, (6)

Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven,

His vulture and his rock ! Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, And that last act, though not thy worst, The

(7) Fiend's arch mock;

very He in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !


Note 1, page 113, line 2.

The rapture of the strife. Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus.

Note 2, page 114, line 1.

He who of old would rend the oak. Milo.

Note 3, page 114, line 10.

The Roman, when his burning heart. Sylla.

Note 4, page 115, line 1.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway. Charles V.

Note 5, page 118, line 10.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage. The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane.

Note 6, page 119, line 1.

Or like the thief of fire from heaven.

Note 7, page 119, line 7.
The very Fiend's arch mock.

" The fiend's arch mock-
“ To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste.”-






When the last sunshine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes
While Nature makes that melancholy pause,
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime,
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep,
A holy concord—and a bright regret,
A glorious sympathy with suns that set?

'Tis not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness—but full and clear,
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame—and secret without pain.

Even as the tenderness that hour instils
When Summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes
When all of Genius which can perish dies.
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed—a Power
Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd-no name,
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame!
The flash of Wit-the bright Intelligence,
The beam of Song—the blaze of Eloquence,
Set with their Sun—but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal Mind;
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,
A deathless part of him who died too soon.
But small that portion of the wondrous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circling soul,
Which all embraced—and lighten'd over all,
To cheer-to pierce-to please—or to appal..
From the charm'd council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord;

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