ODE TO (THE LATE) JACOB BRYANT, Esg
THE Sophist spins his subtle thread;
On liberty and fate,
With heart deprav'd, and puzzled head,
Prolongs the dull debate,
Till Virtue, Truth, his Saviour, and his God,
By Metaphysic's mighty lore
At once lose all their essence, all their power,
Charm'd to eternal sleep by that magician's rod.
O shame to prostituted parts!
Was time, was genius given,
To darken by dishonest arts
The clear decrees of heaven?
Tell me, my BRYANT, burns not all thy soul
With indignation's holy zeal?
Tell me, thou Patriot of the Christian weal, Feel'st not, secure thyself, what dangers wait the Whole?
Thou do'st. To vindicate the
Of God to man is thine:
And all thy nights, and all thy days,
In Truth's neglected mine,
By thee discover'd in these later times,
Thine hand digs deep for solid ore;
The hard-earn'd treasure speeds to many a shore, And claims its honour due, the praise of distant climes.
Where'er thou com'st, discerning Sage,
Detected Falshood flies;
Tho' sanctified by many an age,
The creed of Centuries.
Thy torch is rais'd, and lo! the historic Muse
Rears from the dust her mangled head,
Tells the true story of her mighty dead,
And thro'each peopled land her wandering tribes pursues.
Now stronger grows the blaze of light;
The darkness melts away
Which wrapt Egyptian realms in night,
And long obscur'd their day.
In vain from Ham's wise sons did Greece of old
Aspire to tear Invention's crown;
In vain she hop'd to gain a sure renown
On tales of dragon's teeth, and fabled fleece of gold;
The charm is o'er. Thou to her source
Dark Error first didst trace:
Thou marking all her winding course
Shalt free the human race
From prejudice, imbibed in earliest youth;
And sweeping all the mists away
Which Fiction rais'd to lead thy steps astray, Firm on her blazing throne shalt fix Historic Truth.
Proceed, my friend; so shalt thou find
In these dark paths thy God:
His works, his word, with steady mind
From stern Oppression's rod,
From quibbling words, from lying lips retrieve;
And while thou talk'st of ancient days
Erect memorials to Jehovah's praise,
Till Sceptics cease to doubt, and Infidels believe.
A HYMN FOR THE MASSACHUSETTS HUMANE SOCIETY.
BY MRS. MORTON, OF BOSTON.
WHо from the gloomy shades of night,
When the last tear of hope is shed,
Can bid the soul return to light,
And break the slumber of the dead?
No human skill that heart can warm,
Which the cold blast of Nature froze
Recal to life the perish'd form;
The secret of the grave disclose.
But thou, our saving God, we know,
Canst arm the mortal hand with pow'r,
To bid the stagnant pulses flow,
The animating heat restore.
Thy will, ere Nature's tutor'd hand
Could with young life these limbs unfold,
Bade the imprison'd brain expand,
And all its countless fibres told.
As from the dust thy forming breath
Could the unconscious being raise,
So can the silent voice of death
Wake at thy call in songs of praise.
"Since twice to die is ours alone,
And twice the birth of life to see;
O let us, suppliant at thy throne,
Devote our second life to thee*!"
*This last stanza was sung by those who had been restored to life from apparent death.
АH! cease thy shrill-pipe, LITTLE SWEEP,
Nor raise these aching lids to weep!
When DAWN, arrayed in pearly white,
Sits on the shadows of the night,
Then, gentle dreams in gambols bound,
And light-drawn slumbers glide around,
Then, rosy Fancy takes the chains
And leads us o'er enchanted plains;
Then, do not wake me, LITTLE SWEEP,
For I only wake to weep.
Thy clarion loud I hate to hear,
And, dreading Thee, I sleep in fear;
For sleep is all the good I know,
The silky veil which hides my woe.
No bright ideas gild my bed,
No lively hopes their treasures shed:
A dreary, vapid, joyless scene,
IS ALL my grave and me between.
Pass silent on then, LITTLE SWEEP,
For I only wake to weep.
How sad it seems, when slumbers fly,
And sun-beams blaze along the sky,
To feel no sun-beam in the mind!
There, all is dark, and cold, and blind.
Then MEMORY, on impy wings,
Her retrospective poison brings,
And EXPECTATION, blacker still,
Bids deep Despair my bosom fill.
Hush, hush thy cry then, LITTLE SWEEP,
For I only wake to weep.
Pass on, pass on, thou ling'ring child,
Nor rouse me with thy shriekings wild.
To blissful dwellings speed thy way,
For they with transport meet the day.
No linnet hath a softer note,
Than that which tears thy ebon throat,
When to a happy ear it speaks,
And every drowsy cincture breaks;
Then scream not here, thou LITTLE SWEEP,
For I only wake to weep.
ONCE, charming was my waking hour,
When sweet reflections knew my bower;
When springing from my couch of balm,
My views were gay, my heart was calm;
When laughing pleasure at my board
Spread out its ever-sparkling hoard;
When friends and filial Cherubs smil'd,
And of its thorn each care beguil❜d.
Now!-Wake me not, O CRUEL SWEEP,
For I only wake to weep.
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