Hail, mighty Mind! hail, awful name!
I feel inspir'd my lab'ring breast;
And lo! I pant, I burn for fame!

Come, Science, bright etheral guest, Oh come, and lead thy meanest humblest son, Through Wisdom's arduous paths to fair renown. Could I to one faint ray aspire,

One spark of that celestial fire,

The leading cynosure, that glow'd

While SMITH explor'd the dark abode,
Where Wisdom sate on Nature's shrine,
How great my boast! what praise were mine!
Illustrious sage! who first couldst tell
Wherein the powers of Music dwell;
And every magic chain untie,
That binds the soul of Harmony!

To thee, when mould'ring in the dust,
To thee shall swell the breathing bust :
Shall here (for his reward thy merits claim)

"Stand next to place in NEWTON, as in fame.”

ODE XLI.

ΤΟ

SILENCE.

BY

THE REV. THOMAS COLE.

COME, musing Silence, nor refuse to shed
Thy sober influence o'er this darkling cell:
The desert waste and lonely plain
Could ne'er confine thy peaceful reign;
Nor dost thou only love to dwell

'Mid the dark mansions of the vaulted dead:
For still at eve's serenest hour

All Nature owns thy soothing power:
Oft hast thou deign'd with me to rove,
Beneath the calm sequester'd grove;
Oft deign'd my sacred steps to lead
Along the dewy pathless mead;
Or up the dusky lawn, to spy

The last faint gleamings of the twilight sky.

Then wilt thou still thy pensive vot'ry meet,

Oft as he calls thee to this gloomy seat:

For here, with solemn mystic rite,

Wert thou invok'd to consecrate the ground, Ere these rude walls were rear'd remote from sight, Or ere with moss this shaggy roof was crown'd.

Hail! blessed parent of each purer thought,
That doth at once the heart exalt and mend !
Here wilt thou never fail to find

My vacant solitude inclin'd

Thy serious lessons to attend.

For they I ween shall be with goodness fraught,
Whether thou bid me meditate

On man, in untaught Nature's state;
How far this life he ought to prize;
How far its transient scenes despise ;
What heights his reason may attain,
And where its proud attempts are vain;
What toils his virtue ought to brave,

For Hope's rewarding joys beyond the grave: Or if in man redeem'd you bid me trace

Each wondrous proof of Heaven's transcendent grace;
Then breathe some sparks of that celestial fire,
Which in the raptur'd seraph glows above,
Where sainted myriads crowd the joyful choir,
And harp their praises round the throne of love.
The trifling sons of Levity and Pride
Hence shall thy awful seriousness exclude;
Nor shall loud Riot's thoughtless train
With frantic mirth this grot profane.
No foe to peace shall here intrude.