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But not for this do I aspire
To match the spark of local fire,
That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,
With thy acknowledged glories ; — No
Yet, thus upbraided, I may shew
What favours do attend me here,
Till, like thyself, I disappear
Before the purple dawn."
When this in modest guise was said,
Across the welkin seemed to spread
A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit!
the rivers backward ran
That Star, so proud of late, looked wan ;
And reeled with visionary stir
In the blue depth, like Lucifer
Cast headlong to the pit!
Fire raged, — and when the spangled floor
Of ancient ether was no more,
New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth:
And all the happy Souls that rode
Transfigured through that fresh abode,
Had heretofore, in humble trust,
Shone meekly mid their native dust,
The Glow-worms of the earth!
This knowledge, from an Angel's voice
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice
Of Him who slept upon the open
Waking at morn he murmured not ;
And, till life's journey closed, the spot
Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,
Where by that dream he had been cheered
Beneath the shady tree.
FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.
“ Who but hails the sight with pleasure
When the wings of geniús rise,
Their ability to measure
With great enterprise ;
But in man was ne'er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in
The stormy skies !
Mark him, how his power uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes !
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses
Clouds and utter glooms !
There, he wheels in downward mazes ;
Sunward now his flight he raises,
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes
With uninjured plumes !" —
“ Stranger, 'tis no act of courage
Which aloft thou dost discern;
No bold bird gone forth to forage
Mid the tempest stern;
But such mockery as the Nations
See, when public perturbations
Lift men from their native stations,
TUFT OF FERN ;
Such it is ;- the aspiring Creature
Soaring on undaunted wing,
(So you fancied) is by nature
A dull helpless Thing,
Dry and withered, light and yellow ;-
That to be the tempest's fellow !
shall see how hollow Its endeavouring !"
Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.”
By their floating Mill,
That lies dead and still, Behold yon Prisoners three, The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames ! The Platform is small, but gives room for them all; And they're dancing merrily.
From the shore come the notes
To their Mill where it floats,
To their House and their Mill tethered fast;
To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile,
They from morning to even take whatever is given;
And many a blithe day they have past.