Reach'd out the friendly cup; whose care benign From the rude blast secured the pilgrim's side; Who heard the widow's tender tale; and shook The galling shackle from the prisoner's feet; Who each endearing tie, each office knew Of meek-ey'd heaven-descended Charity.- O Charity, thou nymph divinely fair! Sweeter than those whom ancient poets bound In amity's indissoluble chain,
The Graces! How shall I essay to paint
Thy charms, celestial maid; and in rude verse Blazon those deeds thyself did'st ne'er reveal? For thee nor rankling envy can infect, Nor rage transport, nor high o'erweening pride Puff up with vain conceit: ne'er did'st thou smile To see the sinner as a verdant tree
Spread his luxuriant branches o'er the stream: While like some blasted trunk the righteous fall, Prostrate, forlorn. When prophecies shall fail,
When tongues shall cease, when knowledge is no more, And this Great Day is come; thou by the throne Shalt sit triumphant. Thither, lovely maid, Bear me, O bear me on thy soaring wing, And through the adamantine gates of Heaven Conduct my steps, safe from the fiery gulf And dark abyss where Sin and Satan reign
But can the Muse, her numbers all too weak, Tell how that restless element of fire
Shall wage with seas and earth intestine war, And deluge all creation? Whether (so Some think) the comet, as through fields of air Lawless he wanders, shall rush headlong on, Thwarting th' ecliptic where th' unconscious earth Rolls in her wonted course; whether the sun With force centripetal into his orb Attract her long reluctant; or the caves, Those dread volcanos, where engendering lie Sulphureous minerals, from their dark abyss Pour streams of liquid fire; while from above, As erst on Sodom, Heaven's avenging hand Rains fierce combustion. Where are now the works Of art, the toil of ages ?Where are now Th' imperial cities, sepulchres and domes, Trophies and pillars ?-Where is Egypt's boast, Those lofty pyramids which high in air Rear'd their aspiring heads, to distant times.
Of Memphian pride a lasting monument?—
Tell me where Athens rais'd her towers -Where
Open'd her hundred portals?—Tell me where Stood sea-girt Albion ?-Where imperial Rome Propt by seven hills stood like a scepter'd queen,
And aw'd the tributary world to peace?
Shew me the rampart, which o'er many a hill, Through many a valley, stretch'd its wide extent, Rais'd by that mighty monarch, to repel The roving Tartar, when with insult rude 'Gainst Pekin's towers he bent th' unerring bow.
But what is mimic Art? Ev'n Nature's works, Seas, meadows, pastures, the meand'ring streams, And everlasting hills, shall be no more.
No more shall Teneriffe, cloud-piercing height, O'er-hang th' Atlantic surge: nor that famed cliff Through which the Persian steer'd with many a sail, Throw to the Lemnian isle its evening shade O'er half the wide Egean. Where are now The Alps that confined with unnumber'd realms, And from the Black-sea to the Ocean-stream Stretch'd their extended arms?-Where's Ararat, That hill on which the faithful patriarch's ark, Which seven long months had voyaged o'er its top, First rested, when the earth with all her sons, As now by streaming cataracts of fire, Was whelm'd by mighty waters?
Are vanish'd and dissolv'd; no trace remains, No mark of vain distinction: Heaven itself, That azure vault with all those radiant orbs,
Sinks in the universal ruin lost.
No more shall planets round their central Sun Move in harmonious dance; no more the Moon Hang out her silver lamp; and those fix'd Stars Spangling the golden canopy of night, Which oft the Tuscan with his optic glass
Call'd from their wondrous height, to read their names And magnitude, some winged minister
Shall quench; and (surest sign that all on earth Is lost) shall rend from Heaven thy mystic bow.
Such is that awful, that tremendous Day, Whose coming who shall tell? For as a thief Unheard, unseen, it steals with silent pace
Through Night's dark gloom. Perhaps as here I sit, And rudely carol these incondite lays,
Soon shall the hand be check’d, and dumb the mouth That lisps the faltering strain. O! may it ne'erIntrude unwelcome on an ill-spent hour;
But find me wrapt in meditations high,
Hymning my great Creator!
O everlasting King! To Thee I kneel,
To Thee I lift my voice. With fervent heat Melt all ye elements! and thou, high Heaven, Shrink like a shrivel'd scroll! But think, O Lord!
Think on the best, the noblest of thy works; Think on thine own bright image! Think on Him, Who died to save us from thy righteous wrath; And, midst the wreck of worlds, remember man!'
WHERE the prime actors of the last year's scene; Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume ? How many sleep, who kept the world awake With lustre and with noise! Has Death proclaim'd A truce, and hung his sated lance on high? "Tis brandish'd still; nor shall the present year Be more tenacious of her human leaf, Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall.
But needless monuments to wake the thought: Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality; Though in a style more florid, full as plain, As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs. What are our noblest ornaments, but deaths Turn'd flatterers of life, in paint, or marble, The well stain'd canvass, or the featured stone?
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