Loud as the tempest that o'er ocean raves!
Woe to the nations proud and strong,
That rush tumultuously along,

As rolls the foaming stream its long-resounding waves!
As the noise of mighty seas,

As the loudly-murmuring breeze,

Shall gath'ring nations rush, a pow'rful band:
Rise, GOD OF LIGHT, in burning wrath severe,
And stretch, to blast their proud career,
Thy arrow-darting hand!

Then shall their ranks to certain fate be giv'n,

Then on their course DESPAIR her fires shall cast,
Then shall they fly, to endless ruin driv'n,

As flies the thistle-down before the mountain-blast!

XVII.

"Alas! in vain, in vain we call!
The stranger triumphs in our fall!
And FATE comes on, with ruthless frown,
To strike PALMYRA's splendour down.
Urg'd by the steady breath of TIME,
The desert-whirlwind sweeps sublime,
The eddying sands in mountain-columns rise:
Borne on the pinions of the gale,

In one concentred cloud they sail,
Along the darken'd skies.

It falls! it falls! on THEDMOR'S walls
The whelming weight of ruin falls!
Th' avenging thunder-bolt is hurl'd,
Her pride is blotted from the world,

Her name unknown in story:
The trav'ller on her scite shall stand,
And seek, amid the desert-sand,

The records of her glory!

the noise of the seas, and to the rushing of nations, that make a rushing like the rushing of mighty waters! The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters; but GOD shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling thing before the whirlwind. — ISAIAH, c. xvii., v. 12.

VOL. III.

21

Her palaces are crush'd, her tow'rs o'erthrown, OBLIVION follows stern, and marks her for his own!"

XVIII.

How oft, the festal board around,
These time-worn walls among,
Has rung the full symphonious sound
Of rapture-breathing song!

Ah! little thought the wealthy proud,
When rosy pleasure laugh'd aloud,
That here, amid their ancient land,
The wand'rer of the distant days
Should mark, with sorrow-clouded gaze,
The mighty wilderness of sand;

While not a sound should meet his ear,
Save of the desert-gales that sweep,
In modulated murmurs deep,

The wasted graves above,

Of those who once had revell'd here,
In happiness and love!

ΧΙΧ.

Short is the space to man assign'd
This earthly vale to tread;
He wanders, erring, weak, and blind,
By adverse passions led.
LOVE, the balm of ev'ry woe,
The dearest blessing man can know;
JEALOUSY, whose pois'nous breath
Blasts affection's op'ning bud;
Stern DESPAIR, that laughs in death;
Black REVENGE, that bathes in blood;
FEAR, that his form in darkness shrouds,
And trembles at the whisp'ring air;
And HOPE, that pictures on the clouds
Celestial visions, false, but fair;
All rule by turns:

To-day he burns

XX.

From the earliest twilight-ray,
That mark'd CREATION'S natal day,
Till yesterday's declining fire,

Thus still have roll'd, perplex'd by strife,
The many-clashing wheels of life,

And still shall roll, till TIME's last beams expire.
And thus, in ev'ry age, in ev'ry clime,

While circling years shall fly,

The varying deeds that mark the present time
Will be but shadows of the days gone by.

ΧΧΙ.

Along the desolated shore,

Where, broad and swift, EUPHRATES flows, The trav'ller's anxious eye can trace no more The spot where once the QUEEN OF CITIES rose. Where old PERSEPOLIS sublimely tow'r'd,

In cedar-groves embow'r'd,

*

A rudely-splendid wreck alone remains.
The course of FATE no pomp or pow'r can shun.
Pollution tramples on thy giant-fanes,

Oh CITY OF THE SUN !†

Fall'n are the TYRIAN domes of wealth and joy, The hundred gates of THEBES, the tow'rs of TROY; In shame and sorrow pre-ordain'd to cease,

Proud SALEM met th' irrevocable doom;

In darkness sunk the arts and arms of GREECE,
And the long glories of imperial ROME.

XXII.

When the tyrant's iron hand

The mountain-piles of MEMPHIS rais'd,
That still the storms of angry TIME defy,
In self-adoring thought he gaz'd,
And bade the massive labours stand,
Till NATURE's self should die !
Presumptuous fool! the death-wind came,
And swept away thy worthless name;

Babylon.

+ Balbec, the HELIOPOLIS of the Greeks and Romans.

And ages, with insidious flow,

Shall lay those blood-bought fabrics low.
Then shall the stranger pause, and oft be told,
"Here stood the mighty PYRAMIDS of old !"
And smile, half-doubtful, when the tale he hears,
That speaks the wonders of the distant years.

XXIII.

Though NIGHT awhile usurp the skies,
Yet soon the smiling MORN shall rise,
And light and life restore;
Again the sunbeams gild the plain ;*
The youthful day returns again,

But man returns no more.

* Let clouds rest on the hills, spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams, and windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly; rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or enclose her head in clouds; night is alike to me, blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more.

Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of mighty name? The fields of their battles are silent; scarce their mossy tombs remain. We shall also be forgotten. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, "Where stood the walls of our fathers?"-See the beautiful little poem of THE BARDS in the notes on OSSIAN'S CROMA.

Raise, ye bards, said the mighty FINGAL, the praise of unhappy MOINA. Call her ghost, with your songs, to our hills; that she may rest with the fair of MORVEN, the sunbeams of other days, and the delight of heroes of old. I have seen the walls of BALCLUTHA, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls: the voice of the people was heard no more. The stream of CLUTHA was removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook, there, its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of MOINA, silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, oh bards, over the land of strangers. They have but fallen before us: for, one day, we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield.-OSSIAN.

Though WINTER's frown severe
Deform the wasted year,

SPRING smiles again, with renovated bloom;
But what sweet SPRING, with genial breath,
Shall chase the icy sleep of death,

The dark and cheerless winter of the tomb?
Hark! from the mansions of the dead,
What thrilling sounds of deepest import spread!
Sublimely mingled with the eddying gale,
Full on the desert-air these solemn accents sail :

XXIV.

"Unthinking man! and dost thou weep,
That clouds o'ercast thy little day?
That DEATH'S stern hands so quickly sweep
Thy ev'ry earthly hope away?

Thy rapid hours in darkness flow,

But well those rapid hours employ,
And they shall lead from realms of woe
To realms of everlasting joy.
For though thy FATHER and thy GOD
Wave o'er thy head His chast'ning rod,
Benignantly severe,

Yet future blessings shall repair,
In tenfold measure, ev'ry care,
That marks thy progress here.

XXV.

"BOW THEN TO HIM, for HE is GOOD,

And loves the works His hands have made;

In earth, in air, in fire, in flood,

His parent-bounty shines display'd.

BOW THEN TO HIM, for HE is JUST,

Though mortals scan His ways in vain ;

Repine not, children of the dust!

For HE in mercy sends ye pain.

BOW THEN TO HIM, for HE is GREAT,
And was, ere NATURE, TIME, and FATE,
Began their mystic flight;

And still shall be, when consummating flame
Shall plunge this universal frame
In everlasting night.