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Through storms of death and seas of graves
His path was on the desert waves,
The youth who lifts his graceful hand,
And Beauty leap'd, at his command,
Trembling with ecstacy of thought,
Behold the Grecian maid,
Whom love's enchanting impulse taught
Sweet are the thefts of love;-she stole
His image while he lay,
Kindled the shadow to a soul,
And breathed that soul through clay.
Yon listening nymph, who looks behind,
Heard midnight music in the wind,
All hail!-The Sire of Song appears,
The sky-lark in the dawn of years,
He from the depth of cavern'd woods,
Bade mountains, valleys, winds, and floods,
And earth and heaven rejoice.
Though charm'd to meekness while he sung,
Dim through the mist of twilight times
Behind him, red with glorious crimes,
Relentless Hannibal, in pride
With moonlight softness Helen's charms
But Homer ;-see the bard arise;
The Dardan warriors lift their eyes,
And while his music rolls along,
For still around the eternal walls
Genius of Homer! were it mine"
To track thy fiery car,
And in thy sunset course to shine
A radiant evening star,
What theme, what laurel might the Muse Reclaim from ages fled?
What realm-restoring hero chuse
To summon from the dead?
Yonder his shadow flits away:
'Tis Alfred:-In the rolls of Fame,
A Danish winter, from the north,
But Alfred, like the spring, brake forth,
Back to the deep he roll'd the waves,
By mad invasion hurl'd;
His voice was liberty to slaves,
Defiance to the world.
And still that voice o'er land and sea
Shall Albion's foes appal;
The race of Alfred will be free;
But lo! the phantoms fade in flight,
Like meteors gleaming through the night,
The vision of the tomb is past;
I know not, but I soon shall know,
When this desponding heart lies low,
For see, on Death's bewildering wave,
A bridge of glory o'er the grave,
From earth to heaven it swells and shines,
And grasps them in a span.
YES, these are the features already imprest
So deep by the pencil of Love on my heart! Within their reflection they find in this breast:
Yet something is wanting: ah! where is the art That to painting so true can that something impart?
Oh! where is the sweetness that dwells on that lip?
Nor meet the soft glance which with magic control
Cold, cold is that eye! unimpassioned its beams;