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The pillar'd cave of Morven's giant king,1

The Yanar,2 and the Geyser's boiling fountain,

The deep volcano's inward murmuring,

The shadowy Colossus of the mountain; 3 Antiparos, where sun-beams never enter; Loud Stromboli, amid the quaking isles; The terrible Maelstroom, around his centre Wheeling his circuit of unnumber'd miles: These, these are sights and sounds that freeze the blood,

Yet charm the awe-struck soul which doats on solitude.

Blest be the bard, whose willing feet rejoice

To tread the emerald green of Fancy's vales, Who hears the music of her heavenly voice, And breathes the rapture of her nectar'd gales!

Blest be the bard, whom golden Fancy loves,

He strays for ever thro' her blooming bowers, Amid the rich profusion of her groves,

And wreathes his forehead with her spicy flowers

Of sunny radiance; but how blest is he

Who feels the genuine force of high Sublimity!

THE DEITY

Signed A. T. or C. T.' in the reprint, but Lord Tennyson believes, as I do, that Charles wrote it.

Immutable-immortal-infinite!'- MILTON.

WHERE is the wonderful abode,

The holy, secret, searchless shrine,
Where dwells the immaterial God,
The all-pervading and benign?

O! that he were reveal'd to me,
Fully and palpably display'd

In all the awful majesty

Of heaven's consummate pomp array'd—

How would the overwhelming light
Of his tremendous presence beam!

And how insufferably bright

Would the broad glow of glory stream!

What tho' this flesh would fade like grass,
Before th' intensity of day?
One glance at Him who always was,

The fiercest pangs would well repay.

When Moses on the mountain's brow Had met th' Eternal face to face, While anxious Israel stood below,

Wond'ring and trembling at its base;

1 Fingal's Cave in the Island of Staffa. If the Colossus of Rhodes bestrid a harbour, Fingal's powers were certainly far from despicable:

A chos air Cromleach druim-ard
Chos eile air Crommeal dubh
Thoga Fion le lamh mhoir

An d'uisge o Lubhair na fruth.

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Remarkable for imagination and for versification as the work of a boy of sixteen.

I SEE the chariot, where,

Throughout the purple air,

The forelock'd monarch rides:

Arm'd like some antique vehicle for war,
Time, hoary Time! I see thy scythed car,
In voiceless majesty,

Cleaving the clouds of ages that float by,
And change their many-colour'd sides,
Now dark, now dun, now richly bright,
In an ever-varying light.

The great, the lowly, and the brave

Bow down before the rushing force Of thine unconquerable course; Thy wheels are noiseless as the grave, Yet fleet as Heaven's red bolt they hurry on, They pass above us, and are gone!

Clear is the track which thou hast past;

Strew'd with the wrecks of frail renown,
Robe, sceptre, banner, wreath, and crown,
The pathway that before thee lies,

An undistinguishable waste,

Invisible to human eyes,

Which fain would scan the various shapes which glide

In dusky cavalcade, Imperfectly descried,

Through that intense, impenetrable shade.

With one foot on Cromleach his brow,

The other on Crommeal the dark,

Fion took up with his large hand

The water from Lubhair of streams.

See the Dissertations prefixed to Ossian's Poems,

2 Or, perpetual fire.

3 Alias, the Spectre of the Broken.

Four grey steeds thy chariot draw; In th' obdurate, tameless jaw

Their rusted iron bits they sternly champ;
Ye may not hear the echoing tramp

Of their light-bounding, windy feet,
Upon that cloudy pavement beat.
Four wings have each, which, far outspread,
Receive the many blasts of heav'n,
As with unwearied speed,

Throughout the long extent of ether driven, Onward they rush for ever and for aye: !

Thy voice, thou mighty Charioteer Always sounding in their ear, Throughout the gloom of night and heat of day.

Fast behind thee follows Death,

Thro' the ranks of wan and weeping, That yield their miserable breath,

On with his pallid courser proudly sweeping. Arm'd is he in full mail,1

Bright breast-plate and high crest,

Nor is the trenchant falchion wanting: So fiercely does he ride the gale,

On Time's dark car, before him, rest

The dew-drops of his charger's panting.

On, on they go along the boundless skies,
All human grandeur fades away
Before their flashing, fiery, hollow eyes;
Beneath the terrible control

Of those vast armed orbs, which roll
Oblivion on the creatures of a day.
Those splendid monuments alone he spares,
Which, to her deathless votaries,
Bright Fame, with glowing hand, uprears
Amid the waste of countless years.

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Thy strength is the flower that shall last but a day,

And thy might is the snow in the sun's burning

ray.

Arm, arm from the east, Babylonia's son ! Arm, arm for the battle- the Lord leads thee on !

With the shield of thy fame, and the power of thy pride,

Arm, arm in thy glory- the Lord is thy guide.

Thou shalt come like a storm when the moonlight is dim,

And the lake's gloomy bosom is full to the brim;

Thou shalt come like the flash in the darkness of night,

When the wolves of the forest shall howl for affright.

Woe, woe to thee, Tanis! thy babes shall be thrown

By the barbarous hands on the cold marble

stone:

Woe, woe to thee, Nile! for thy stream shall

be red

With the blood that shall gush o'er thy billowy bed!

Woe, woe to thee, Memphis! the war-cry is

near,

And the child shall be toss'd on the murderer's spear;

For fiercely he comes in the day of his ire, With wheels like a whirlwind, and chariots of fire!

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SOFT, shadowy moon-beam! by thy light
Sleeps the wide meer serenely pale:
How various are the sounds of night,
Borne on the scarcely-rising gale!

The swell of distant brook is heard,
Whose far-off waters faintly roll;
And piping of the shrill small bird,
Arrested by the wand'ring owl.

Come hither! let us thread with care
The maze of this green path, which binds
The beauties of the broad parterre,

And thro' yon fragrant alley winds.

Or on this old bench will we sit,

Round which the clust'ring woodbine wreathes;

While birds of night around us flit;

And thro' each lavish wood-walk breathes,

Unto my ravish'd senses, brought

From yon thick-woven odorous bowers,
The still rich breeze, with incense fraught
Of glowing fruits and spangled flowers.

The whispering leaves, the gushing stream,
Where trembles the uncertain moon,
Suit more the poet's pensive dream,
Than all the jarring notes of noon.

Then, to the thickly-crowded mart
The eager sons of interest press;
Then, shine the tinsel works of art
Now, all is Nature's loneliness!

Then, wealth aloft in state displays
The glittering of her gilded cars;
Now, dimly stream the mingled rays
Of yon far-twinkling, silver stars.

Yon church, whose cold grey spire appears
In the black outline of the trees,
Conceals the object of my tears,

Whose form in dreams my spirit sees.

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OH! Berenice, lorn and lost,

This wretched soul with shame is bleed. ing:

Oh! Berenice, I am tost

By griefs, like wave to wave succeeding.

Fall'n Pontus! all her fame is gone,
And dim the splendour of her glory;
Low in the west her evening sun,

And dark the lustre of her story.

Dead is the wreath that round her brow
The glowing hands of Honour braided;
What change of fate can wait her now,
Her sceptre spoil'd, her throne degraded ?

And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go,

My love, thy life, thy country shaming, In all the agonies of woe,

Mid madd'ning shouts, and standarda flam ing?

And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go,
Proud Rome's triumphal car adorning?
Hark! hark! I hear thee answer No!'
The proffer'd life of thraldom scorning.

Lone, crownless, destitute, and poor,
My heart with bitter pain is burning;
So thick a cloud of night hangs o'er,
My daylight into darkness turning.

Yet though my spirit, bow'd with ill,
Small hope from future fortune borrows;
One glorious thought shall cheer me still,
That thou art free from abject sorrows-

Art free for ever from the strife

Of slavery's pangs and tearful anguish; For life is death, and death is life,

To those whose limbs in fetters languish.

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'And said I, that my limbs were old!'- SCOTT.

RAISE, raise the song of the hundred shells! Though my hair is grey and my limbs are cold;

Yet in my bosom proudly dwells

The memory of the days of old;

When my voice was high, and my arm was strong,

And the foeman before my stroke would bow, And I could have rais'd the sounding song As loudly as I hear ye now.

For when I have chanted the bold song of death,

Not a page would have stay'd in the hall, Not a lance in the rest, not a sword in the sheath,

Not a shield on the dim grey wall.

And who might resist the united powers
Of battle and music that day,

When, all martiall'd in arms on the heavenkissing towers,

Stood the chieftains in peerless array?

When our enemies sunk from our eyes as the

snow

Which falls down the stream in the dell, When each word that I spake was the death of a foe,

And each note of my harp was his knell?

So raise ye the song of the hundred shells; Though my hair is grey and my limbs are cold,

Yet in my bosom proudly dwells
The memory of the days of old!

THE FALL OF JERUSALEM

JERUSALEM! Jerusalem!

Thou art low thou mighty one, How is the brilliance of thy diadem, How is the lustre of thy throne

Rent from thee, and thy sun of fame
Darken'd by the shadowy pinion

Of the Roman bird, whose sway
All the tribes of earth obey,
Crouching 'neath his dread dominion,
And the terrors of his name!

How is thy royal seat-whereon
Sate in days of yore
Lowly Jesse's godlike son,
And the strength of Solomon,
In those rich and happy times
When the ships from Tarshish bore
Incense, and from Ophir's land,
With silken sail and cedar oar,
Wafting to Judea's strand
All the wealth of foreign climes
How is thy royal seat o'erthrown!
Gone is all thy majesty:

Salem! Salem! city of kings,
Thou sittest desolate and lone,

Where once the glory of the Most High

Dwelt visibly enshrin'd between the wings Of Cherubims, within whose bright embrace The golden mercy-seat remain'd: Land of Jehovah! view that sacred place Abandon'd and profan'd!

Wail! fallen Salem! Wail:

Mohammed's votaries pollute thy fane;
The dark division of thine holy veil
Is rent in twain!

Thrice hath Sion's crowned rock
Seen thy temple's marble state,
Awfully, serenely great,

Towering on his sainted brow,
Rear its pinnacles of snow:

Thrice, with desolating shock,

Down to earth hath seen it driv'n
From his heights, which reach to heaven!

Wail, fallen Salem! Wail:

Though not one stone above another There was left to tell the tale

Of the greatness of thy story, Yet the long lapse of ages cannot smother The blaze of thine abounding glory; Which thro' the mist of rolling years, O'er history's darken'd page appears, Like the morning star, whose gleam

Gazeth thro' the waste of night,
What time old ocean's purple stream

In his cold surge hath deeply lav'd
Its ardent front of dewy light.

Oh! who shall e'er forget thy bands
which brav'd

The terrors of the desert's barren reign,
And that strong arm which broke the chain
Wherein ye foully lay enslav'd,

Or that sublime Theocracy which pav'd
Your way thro' ocean's vast domain,
And on, far on to Canaan's emerald plain
Led the Israelitish crowd
With a pillar and a cloud?

Signs on earth and signs on high
Prophesied thy destiny:

A trumpet's voice above thee rung,
A starry sabre o'er thee hung;

Visions of fiery armies, redly flashing
In the many-colour'd glare
Of the setting orb of day;

And flaming chariots, fiercely dashing,
Swept along the peopled air,
In magnificent array:

The temple doors, on brazen hinges crashing,
Burst open with appalling sound,

A wondrous radiance streaming round!

'Our blood be on our heads!' ye said:
Such your awless imprecation:

Full bitterly at length 't was paid
Upon your captive nation!

Arms of adverse legions bound thee,
Plague and pestilence stood round thee;
Seven weary suns had brighten'd Syria's
sky,

Yet still was heard th' unceasing cry -
From south, north, east, and west, a voice,
Woe unto thy sons and daughters!
Woe to Salem! thou art lost!'

A sound divine

Came from the sainted, secret, inmost shrine:
Let us go hence!'- and then a noise-
The thunders of the parting Deity,
Like the rush of countless waters,
Like the murmur of a host!

Though now each glorious hope be blighted, Yet an hour shall come, when ye, Though scatter'd like the chaff, shall be Beneath one standard once again united; When your wandering race shall own, Prostrate at the dazzling throne

Of your high Almighty Lord,

The wonders of his searchless word, Th' unfading splendours of his Son!

LAMENTATION OF THE PERUVIANS

THE foes of the east have come down on our shore,

And the state and the strength of Peru are no

more:

Oh! curs'd, doubly curs'd, was that desolate

hour,

When they spread o'er our land in the pride of their power!

Lament for the Inca, the son of the Sun;
Ataliba 's fallen - Peru is undone !

Pizarro! Fizarro! though conquest may wing Her course round thy banners that wanton in air;

Yet remorse to thy grief-stricken conscience shall cling,

And shriek o'er thy banquets in sounds of despair.

It shall tell thee, that he who beholds from his throne

The blood thou hast spilt and the deeds thou hast done,

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Why fann'd ye the fire, and why fed ye the flame?

Why sped ye his sails o'er the ocean so blue ?
Are ye also combin'd for the fall of Peru?
And thou, whom no prayers, no entreaties can
bend,

Thy crimes and thy murders to heav'n shall ascend:

For vengeance the ghosts of our forefathers call;

At thy threshold, Pizarro, in death shalt thou fall!

Ay there -even there in the halls of thy pride, With the blood of thine heart shall thy portals be dyed!

Lo! dark as the tempests that frown from the north,

From the cloud of past time Manco Capac looks forth

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