Who centered in our make such strange
extremes,
From different natures marvellously mixed,
Connection exquisite of distant worlds,
Distinguished link in being's endless chain,
Midway from nothing to the Deity!
A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed, 75
Though sullied and dishonored, still divine,
Dim miniature of greatness absolute!/
An heir of glory, a frail child of dust,
Helpless immortal, insect infinite,
A worm, a god!-I tremble at myself,
And in myself am lost, at home a stranger.
Thought wanders up and down, surprised,
aghast,
Black-plastered, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons
And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead.-Roused from their slumbers,
In grim array the grisly spectres rise, 40 Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
65 Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his
stand
WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 1746
How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod
O'er some new-opened grave; and (strange Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of Last came Joy's ecstatic trial.
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