sporscion. 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, Ah! little thought the wealthy proud, Of those who once had revell'd here, XIX. Short is the space to man assign'd He wanders, erring, weak, and blind, LOVE, the balm of ev'ry woe, The dearest blessing man can know; To-day he burns With ev'ry pang of keen distress; Bids sorrow fly With dreams of promis'd happiness. XX. From the earliest twilight-ray, Thus still have roll'd, perplex'd by strife, And still shall roll, till TIME's last beams expire. While circling years shall fly, The varying deeds that mark the present time XXI. Along the desolated shore, Where, broad and swift, EUPHRATES flows, In cedar-groves embow'r'd, A rudely-splendid wreck alone remains. 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 ; XXII. When the tyrant's iron hand The mountain-piles of MEMPHIS rais'd, * Babylon. + Balbec, the HELIOPOLIS of the Greeks and Romans. And ages, with insidious flow, Shall lay those blood-bought fabrics low. XXIII. Though NIGHT awhile usurp the skies, 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 SPRING Smiles again, with renovated bloom; The dark and cheerless winter of the tomb? XXIV. Unthinking man! and dost thou weep, Thy rapid hours in darkness flow, But well those rapid hours employ, And they shall lead from realms of woe Yet future blessings shall repair, XXV. "BOW THEN TO HIM, for HE is GOOD, 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 still shall be, when consummating flame In everlasting night. BOW THEN TO HIM, the LORD of ALL, Whose nod bids empires rise and fall, EARTH, HEAV'N, and NATURE'S SIRE; TO HIM, Who, matchless and alone, Has fix'd in boundless space His throne, Unchang'd, unchanging still, while worlds and suns expire ! T THE VISIONS OF LOVE. [Published in 1806.] Senza l'amabile Dio di Citera, I di non torano Di primavera ; Non spira un zeffiro, Non spunta un fior.-METASTASIO. chase the clouds of life's tempestuous hours, To strew its short but weary way with flow'rs, New hopes to raise, new feelings to impart, pour celestial balsam on the heart; For this to man was lovely woman giv'n, The last, best work, the noblest gift of HEAV'N. And At EDEN'S gate, as ancient legends say, All-conqu❜ring LOVE! thy pow'rful reign surrounds |