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THE

COURSE OF TIME,

a Poem,

IN TEN BOOKS.

BY ROBERT POLLOK, A. M.

Third American, from the third Edinburgh Edition.

PUBLISHED BY
CROCKER AND BREWSTER, BOSTON :-JONATHAN LEAVITT,
NEW YORK :

-JOHN GRIGG, PHILADELPHIA :-
CUSHING AND JEWETT, BALTIMORE.

Stereotyped at the Boston Type and Stereotype Foundry.

1828.

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ETERNAL SPIRIT! God of truth ! to whom
All things seem as they are; Thou, who of old
The prophet's eye unscaled, that nightly saw,
While heavy sleep fell down on other men,
In holy vision tranced, the future pass
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned
Burdens which made the pagan mountains shake,
And Zion's cedars bow,-inspire my song;
My eye unscale; me what is substance teach,
And shadow what, while I of things to come,
As past, rehearsing, sing the Course of Time,
The second birth, and final doom of man.

The muse, that soft and sickly wooes the ear
Of love, or chanting loud in windy rhyme
Of fabled hero, raves through gaudy tale
Not overfraught with sense, I ask not: such
A strain befits not argument so high.
Me thought, and phrase severely sifting out
The whole idea, grant, uttering as 'tis
The essential truth-time gone, the righteous saved,
The wicked damned, and providence approved.

Hold my right hand, Almighty! and me teach
To strike the lyre, but seldom struck, to notes

1

Harmonious with the morning stars, and pure
As those by sainted bards and angels sung,
Which wake the echoes of Eternity;
That fools may hear and tremble, and the wise,
Instructed, listen, of ages yet to come.

Long was the day, so long expected, past
Of the eternal doom, that gave to each
Of all the human race his due reward.
The
sun,
earth's

sun,
and

moon, and stars, had ceased
To number seasons, days, and months, and years
To mortal man. Hope was forgotten, and fear :
And time, with all its chance, and change, and smiles,
And frequent tears, and deeds of villany,
Or righteousness, once talked of much, as things
Of great renown, was now but ill remembered ;
In dim and shadowy vision of the past
Seen far remote, as country, which has left
The traveller's speedy step, retiring back
From morn till even; and long Eternity
Had rolled his mighty years, and with his years
Men had grown old. The saints, all home returned
From pilgrimage, and war, and weeping, long
Had rested in the bowers of peace, that skirt
The stream of life; and long-alas, how long
To them it seemed the wicked, who refused
To be redeemed, had wandered in the dark
Of hell's despair, and drunk the burning cup
Their sins had filled with everlasting wo.

Thus far the years had rolled, which none but God Doth number, when two sons, two youthful sons Of Paradise, in conversation sweet,For thus the heavenly muse instructs me, wooed At midnight hour with offering sincere Of all the heart, poured out in holy prayer, High on the hills of immortality, Whence goodliest prospect looks beyond the walls

Of heaven, walked, casting oft their eye far through
The pure serene, observant if, returned
From errand duly finished, any came,
Or

any, first in virtue now complete,
From other worlds arrived, confirmed in good.

Thus viewing, one they saw, on hasty wing Directing towards heaven his course; and now, His flight ascending near the battlements And lofty hills on which they walked, approached. For round and round, in spacious circuit wide, Mountains of tallest stature circumscribe The plains of Paradise, whose tops, arrayed In uncreated radiance, seem so pure, That naught but angel's foot, or saint's, elect Of God, may venture there to walk.) Here oft The sons of bliss take morn or evening pastime, Delighted to behold ten thousand worlds Around their suns revolving in the vast External space, or listen the harmonies That each to other in its motion sings. And hence, in middle heaven remote, is seen The mount of God in awful glory bright. Within, no orb create of moon, or star, Or sun, gives light; for God's own countenance, Beaming eternally, gives light to all. But farther than these sacred hills, his will Forbids its flow, too bright for eyes beyond. This is the last ascent of Virtue; here All trial ends, and hope ; here perfect joy, With perfect righteousness, which to these heights Alone can rise, begins, above all fall.

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And now, on wing of holy ardour strong, Hither ascends the stranger, borne upright,For stranger he did seem, with curious eye Of nice inspection round surveying all, And at the feet alights of those that stood

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