Now to her monster-breeding brain appear And screechowls heard, that tell her of the tomb. The taunts of Insolence, the wretch's woes, The stir and strife of Fortune and her tools, The roar of Riot, and the laugh of Fools No longer interrupt her loved repose. Then Wisdom clears her intellectual eyes, And elevates her aim to things Divine, Bids all the choir of Mental Graces rise, Bids all the charms of Moral Beauty shine. Silent are now the groves, no silvan throat Tunes its wild descant; but the hoot I hear. Of the lone owl, though no melodious note, Yet pleasing still to Contemplation's ear. The stars bright-sparkling o'er the ethereal way, The moon's mild gleams that ever quivering play On the light rills, that warble, as the wind, Gales hollow-roaring, hoarse resounding woods, Rude hanging rocks, dread shades, and dashing floods, Exalt, and soothe, and harmonize the mind. Then every rude emotion sinks to rest, In gentler flow the tides of passion roll, Now wantons wild in aromatic groves, Now Horror's shade she seeks, and central cave, And catch new rapture from the Seraph's lyre. Then welcome, Night! thou awful pleasing fair! While the moon seems along the clouds to sail, Which round her throne like fleecy flakes appear, And now half hide her radiance, now reveal. Pride wants the Sun her plumage to display; Draws her rich splendours, or imbibes her joy; Reason's clear beam and Virtue's flame divine Shall with their own eternal glories shine, When worlds and suns in endless darkness die. And thou, Great Father! guard my sleeping hours, Bid the wild war of striving passions cease, Compose in pleasing harmony my powers, And o'er my throbbing bosom breathe thy peace. Thrice-happy souls who thy protection share! Virtue in thy parental arms at rest Securely lies, as stranger yet to fear The suckling slumbers on its mother's breast. Spirits, that hurl the thunders down the sky, Or drive the chariot of the storms on high, And shake o'er trembling Guilt the fiery rod, Oft bid their vengeful rage the pious spare; Even flames, amid the general wreck, revere And pass untouch'd those temples of their God. REV. H. MOORE. ON THE DEATH OF MR. PELHAM. LET others hail the rising sun, I bow to that whose course is run, Which sets in endless night; Whose rays benignant bless'd this isle, No bounty past provokes my praise, VOL. III. R From real grief they flow; I catch the' alarm from Britain's fears, See, as you pass the crowded street, You read in every pensive eye, If thus each Briton is alarm'd What! mute, ye bards?—no mournful verse, When power departed with his breath, Not for herself my Muse is grieved, Hath some peculiar strange offence To check the nation's pride? Uncheck'd by shame, unawed by dread, The same sad morn to church and state (So for our sins 'twas fix'd by fate) By angels watch'd in Eden's bowers, The heavenly guards withdrew. Look down, much honour'd shade, below! Search, with thy more than mortal eye, * The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of the late lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham. |