The rapt Magician of his own wild lay,
Earth and her tribes hismystick wand obey.
Old ocean trembles, thunder cracks the skies,
Air teems with shapes, and tell-tale spectres rise :
Night's paltering hags their fearful orgies keep,
And faithless guilt unseals the lip of sleep :
Time yields his trophies up, and death restores,
The mouldered victims of his voiceless shores ;
The fireside legend, and the faded page,
The crime that cursed, the deed that blessed an age,
All, all come forth-the good to charm and cheer,
To scourge bold Vice, and start the generous tear ;
With pictured Folly gazing fools to shame,
And guide young Glory's foot along the path of fame.

Mark the sceptred traitor slumbering !
There flit the slaves of conscience round,
With boding tongue foul murders numbering;

Sleep's leaden portals catch the sound.
In his dream of blood for mercy quaking,
At his own dull scream behold him waking !

Soon that dream to fate shall turn,

For him the living furies burn;
For him the vulture sits on yonder misty peak,
And chides the lagging night, and whets her hungry

Hark! the trumpet's warning breath

Echoes round the vale of death,
Where, through the maddening ranks, the god of slaugh-

ter rides, And o’er their spouting trunks his reeking axle guides !

Unhorsed, unhelmed, disdaining shield,
The panting tyrant scours the field.

Vengeance! he meets thy dooming blade !
The scourge of earth, the scorn of heaven,
He falls ! unwept and unforgiven,

And all his guilty glories fade.
Like a crushed reptile in the dust he lies,
And Hate's last lightning quivers from his eyes !

Behold yon crownless king

Yon white-locked, weeping sire :Where heaven's unpillared chambers ring,

And burst their streams of flood and fire !
Me gave them all—the daughters of his love ;-
That recreant pair !--they drive him forth to rove;

In such a night of wo,
The cubless regent of the wood
Forgets to bathe her fangs in blood,

And caverns with her foe!
Yet one was ever kind,

Why lingers she behind ?
O pity !-view him by her dead form kneeling,
Even in wild frenzy holy nature feeling.

His aching eyeballs strain
To see those curtained orbs unfold,
That beauteous bosom heave again,-

But all is dark and cold.
In agony the father shakes;

Grief's choking note

Swells in his throat,
Each withered heart-string tugs and breaks !

Round her pale neck his dying arms he wreathes,
And on her marble lips his last, his death-kiss breathes.

Down! trembling wing-shall insect weakness keep

The sun-defying eagle's sweep?

A mortal strike celestial strings, And feebly echo what a seraph sings?

Who now shall grace the glowing throne,

Where, all unrivalled, all alone,
Bold Shakspeare sat, and looked creation through,
The Minstrel Monarch of the worlds he drew?

That throne is cold-that lyre in death unstrung,
On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung.
Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps,
One spot shall spare-the grave where Shakspeare

Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie,
But Nature's laureate bards shall never die.
Art's chiselled boast, and Glory's trophied shore,
Must live in numbers, or can live no more.
While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim,
Still rolls th’ Olympic car in Pindar's fame :
Troy's doubtful walls, in ashes passed away,
Yet frown on Greece in Homer's deathless lay :
Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling fanes,
Stands all-immortal in her Maro's strains :
So, too, yon giant empress of the isles,
On whose broad sway the sun forever smiles,
To Time's unsparing rage one day must bend,
And all her triumphs in her Shakspeare end !

O Thou ! to whose creative power

We dedicate the festal hour,
While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand,
Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's rose-lipped

Realms yet unborn, in accents now unknown,
Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own.
Deep in the West, as Independence roves,
His banners planting round the land he loves,
Where nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace,
In time's full hour shall spring a glorious race :-
Thy name, thy verse, thy language shall they bear,
And deck for thee the vaulted temple there.

Our Roman-hearted fathers broke

Thy parent empire's galling yoke, But thou, harmonious monarch of the mind, Around their sons a gentler chain shalt bind ;Once more, in thee, shall Albion's sceptre wave, And what her mighty Lion lost, her mightier Swan shall



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