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Afflictions of Harp! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string,
Caught from the hand of Moses as it passed
From the Restoration to the Present Times.
I Saw the figure of a lovely Maid Introduction
Seated alone beneath a darksome tree,
Whose fondly-overhanging canopy
Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade.
No Spirit was she; that my heart betrayed,
For she was one I loved exceedingly;
But while I gazed in tender reverie
(Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played ?)
The bright corporeal presence—form and face—
Remaining still distinct grew thin and rare,
Like sunny mist;—at length the golden hair,
Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keeping pace
Each with the other in a lingering race
Of dissolution, melted into air.
Patriotic Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake
Charles the Who comes—with rapture greeted, and caressed
By Poets loathed; from which Historians shrink!
Vet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind LatitudinarCharged with rich words poured out in thought's lamsm defence;
Whether the Church inspire that eloquence,
Or a Platonic Piety confined
To the sole temple of the inward mind;
And One there is who builds immortal lays,
Though doomed to tread in solitary ways,
Darkness before and danger's voice behind;
Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel
Sad thoughts; for from above the starry sphere
Come secrets, whispered nighdy to his ear;
And the pure spirit of celestial light
Shines through his soul—"that he may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight."
There are no colours in the fairest sky Walton's
We read of faith and purest charity
In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen:
O could we copy their mild virtues, then
What joy to live, what blessedness to die!
Methinks their very names shine still and bright;
Apart—like glow-worms on a summer night;
Or lonely tapers when from far they fling
A guiding ray; or seen—like stars on high,
Satellites burning in a lucid ring
Around meek Walton's heavenly memory.
Clerical Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject Integrity Those Unconforming; whom one rigorous day Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey To poverty, and grief, and disrespect, And some to want—as if by tempests wrecked On a wild coast; how destitute! did They Feel not that Conscience never can betray, That peace of mind is Virtue's sure effect. Their altars they forego, their homes they quit, Fields which they love, and paths they daily trod, And cast the future upon Providence; As men the dictate or whose inward sense Outweighs the world; whom self-deceiving wit Lures not from what they deem the cause of God.
Persecution When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry,
Covenanters J^n<* swor(j stopped; the bleeding wounds