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"Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form "Of elemental dross, of mould'ring clay,
"Vie with these charms imperial? The poor worm "Shall prove her contest vain. Life's little day
"Shall pass, and she is gone; while I appear "Flush'd with the bloom of youth through Heav'n's eternal 66 year.
"Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung, "Ere first these orbs in ether hung,
"I shone amid the heav'nly throng; "These eyes beheld Creation's day, "This voice began the choral lay, "And taught archangels their triumphant song. "Pleas'd I survey'd bright Nature's gradual birth, "Saw infant Light with kindling lustre spread,
"Soft vernal fragrance clothe the flow'ring earth, "And Ocean heave on it's extended bed;
"Saw the tall pine aspiring pierce the sky, "The tawny lion stalk, the rapid eagle fly.
"Last, Man arose, erect in youthful grace, "Heav'n's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face; "And, as he rose, the high behest was given "That I alone, of all the host of Heav'n, "Should reign Protectress of the godlike Youth: "Thus the Almighty spake : he spake and call'd me Truth."
ODE TO FANCY.
O PARENT of each lovely muse,-
O Nymph with loosely flowing hair, With buskin❜d leg, and bosom bare, Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd, Waving in thy snowy hand An all commanding magic wand ; Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens grow 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow. Whose rapid wings thy flight convey Through air, and over earth and sea, While the various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes; O lover of the desert, hail! Say in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, 'Midst falls of water you reside, 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between, 'Midst forest dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, Where never human art appear'd,
Nor e'en one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
Me, Goddess, by the right hand lead,
Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
That loves to fold her arms and sigh!
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
O guide me from this horrid scene
And let me think I steal a kiss.
When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose; When the soft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale, When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine his jolly cheeks, When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold, At ev'ry season let my ear Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm, enthusiastic Maid, Without thy pow'rful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to ev'ry line; Ne'er may I strive with lips profane To utter an unhallow'd strain, Nor dare to touch the sacred string, Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing. O hear our pray'r! O hither come From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb! On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling grave; O Queen of numbers! once again Animate some chosen swain, Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire, May boldly strike the sounding lyre,
May rise above the rhyming throng,
HENCE loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sighs unholy, Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven sings;
There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.