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We consecrate our total hopes and fears
But these are fancies of a few : the rest,
The SONS of GENIUS.
Bright bursting thro' the awful veil of night
The lunar beams upon the ocean play,
Where the swift breezes skim along the sea.
The glimmering stars in yon etherial plain
Grow pale and fade before the lucid beams Save where fair Venus shining oe'r the main
Conspicuous still with fainter radiance gleams.
Clear is the azure firmament above,
the breeze, All tranquil is the bosom of the grove
Save where the Zephyr warbles thro' the trees. ·
Now the poor shepherd wandering to his home
Surveys the darkening scene with fearful eye, On every green sees little Elfins roam
And haggard Sprites along the moon-beams fly.
Whilst Superstition rules the vulgar soul,
Forbids the energies of man to rise,
Aspiring Genius seeks her native skies.
She loves the silent solitary hours,
She loves the stillness of the starry night, When o'er the brightening view Selene pours
The soft effulgence of her pensive light.
'Tis then disturb'd not by the glare of day
To mild tranquillity alone resign'd, Reason extends her animating sway
O'er the calm empire of the peaceful mind
Before her lucid all-enlightening ray,
The pallid Spectres of the night retire, She drives the gloomy terrors far away
And fills the bosom with celestial fire.
Inspired by her the sons of Genius rise
Above all earthly thoughts, all vulgar care, Wealth, power and grandeur, they alike despise,
Enraptur'd by the good, the great, the fair.
A thousand varying joys to them belong
The charms of Nature and her changeful scenes, Theirs is the music of the vernal song
And theirs the colors of the vernal plains.
Theirs is the purple-tinged evening ray
With all the radiance of the morning sky, Theirs is the splendour of the risen day
Enshrined in glory by the sun's bright eye.
For them the zephyr fans the odorous dale,
For them the warbling streamlet softly flows, For them the Dryads shade the verdant vale,
To them sweet Philomel attunes her woes.
To them no wakeful moon-beam shines in vain
On the dark bosom of the trackless wood, Sheds its mild radiance o'er the desart plain
Or softly glides along the chrystal flood,
Yet rot alone delight the soft and fair
Alike the grander scenes of Nature move, Yet not alone her beauties claim their care,
The great, sublime and terrible, they love.