To thee the heart its trembling homage yields,
On stormy floods, and carnage-covered fields.
When front to front the bannered hosts combine,
Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line;
When all is still on Death's devoted soil,
The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil;
As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high
The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye,
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come,
And hears thy stormy music in the drum.

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore
The hardy Byron to his native shore.—(a)
In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep.
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep,
'Twas his to mourn misfortune's rudest shock,
Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock,
To wake each joyless morn, and search again
The famished aunts of solitary men,

Whose race, unyielding as their native storm,
Knows not a trace of Nature but the form;
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued,
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued,
Pierced the deep woods, and, hailing from afar
The moon's pale planet and the northern star;
Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before,
Hyænas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore.
Ti'l, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime,
He found a warmer world, a milder clime,
A home to rest, a shelter to defend,
Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend! (b)

Congenial Hope! thy passion-kindling power,
How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour
On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand,
I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand.

"Go, Child of heaven, (thy winged words proclaim) "Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame! Lo! Newton, priest of Nature, shines afar, Scans the wide world, and numbers every star! Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye? Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound, The speed of light, the circling march of sound; With Franklin, grasp the lightning's fiery wing, Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. (c)

"The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bowers, (d) His winged insects, and his rosy flowers; Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train With sounding horn, and counts them on the plainSo once, at Heaven's command, the wand'rers came To Eden's shade, and heard their various name.

"Far from the world, in yon sequestered clime,
Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime;
Calm as the fields of Heav'n his sapient eye
The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high;
Admiring Plato, on his spotless page,
Stamps the bright dictates of the father sage;
'Shall Nature bound to earth's diurnal span
The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man?'

"Turn, Child of Heaven, thy rapture-lightened eye
To Wisdom's walk,-the sacred Nine are nigh:
Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height,
From streams that wander in eternal light,
Ranged on their hill, Harmonia's daughters swell
The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell;
Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow, (e)
And Pythia's awful organ peals below.

"Beloved of Heaven! the smiling Muse shall shed
Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head;
Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined,
And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind.
I see thee roam her guardian power beneath,
And talk with spirits on the midnight heath;
Inquire of guilty wanderers whence they came,
And ask each blood-stained form his earthly name;
Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell,
And read the trembling world the tales of hell.

"When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue,
Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew,
And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ,
Sacred to love and walks of tender joy;
A milder mood the goddess shall recall,
And soft as dew thy tones of music fall;
While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart
A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart-
Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain,
And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain.

"Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem,
And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream;
To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile—
For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile;
On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief,
And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief?

"Yes; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given, And power on earth to plead the cause of heaven: The proud, the cold, untroubled heart of stone, That never mused on sorrow but its own, Unlocks a generous store at thy command,

Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. (ƒ)

The living lumber of his kindred earth,
Charmed into soul, receives a second birth;
Feels thy dread power another heart afford,
Whose passion-touched harmonious strings accord
True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan;
And man, the brother, lives the friend of man!

"Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command,
When Israel marched along the desert land,
Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar,
And told the path-a never-setting star:
So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine,
Hope is thy star, her light is ever thine."

Propitious Power! when rankling cares annoy
The sacred home of Hymenean joy ;

When doomed to Poverty's sequestered dell,
The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell,
Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame,

heir woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same

Oh there, prophetic hope! thy smile bestow,

And chase the pangs that worth should never know—
There, as the parent deals his scanty store
To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more,
Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage
Their father's wrongs, and shield his later age.
What though for him no Hybla sweets distil,
Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill;
Tell, that when silent years have passed away,
That when his eyes grow dim, his tresses grey,
These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build,
And deck with fairer flowers his little field,
And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe
Arcadian beauty on the barren heath;

Tell, that while Love's spontaneous smile endears
The days of peace, the sabbath of his years,
B

Health shall prolong to many a festive hour
The social pleasures of his humble power.

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps;
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,
Smiles on her slumb'ring child with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy—

Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy:
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine;
Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be
In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he!
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past-
With many a smile my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

"And say, when summoned from the world and thee I lay my head beneath the willow tree,

Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And soothe my parted spirit ling'ring near?
Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour, to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love, and all my wo?"

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply;
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love.