Here wave his amber locks; unfold His pinions cloth'd with downy gold; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?

And you, ye host of Saints, for ye have known Each dreary path in life's perplexing maze, Tho' now ye circle yon eternal throne With harpings high of inexpressive praise,

Will not your train descend in radiant state, [fate? To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud of

'Tis silence all. No Son of Light

Darts swiftly from his heavenly height:
No train of radiant Saints descend.
"Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,

"If guilt, if fraud has stain'd your mind,
“Or Saint to hear or Angel to defend.”
So Truth proclaims. I hear the sacred sound
Burst from the centre of her burning throne,

Where aye she sits with star-wreath'd lustre crown'd: A bright Sun clasps her adamantine zone.

So Truth proclaims: her awful voice I hear: With many a solemn pause it slowly meets my ear.

"Attend, ye Sons of Men; attend, and say,
Does not enough of my refulgent ray
Break thro' the veil of your mortality?
Say, does not reason in this form descry

Unnumber'd, nameless glories, that surpass The Angel's floating pomp, the Seraph's glowing grace? Shall then your earth-born daughters vie With me? Shall she, whose brightest eye

But emulates the diamond's blaze,

Whose cheek but mocks the peach's bloom,
Whose breath the hyacinths perfume,

Whose melting voice the warbling woodlark's lays,
Shall she be deem'd my rival? Shall a form
Of elemental dross, of mouldering clay,

Vie with these charms empyrial! 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 thro' Heav'n's eternal year.

Know, Mortals know, ere first ye sprung,
Ere first these orbs in æther hung,

I shone amid the heavenly 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 his 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.
Heaven's hallow'd image stamp'd upon his face;
And as he rose, the high behest was giv'n,

'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."

THE POOR MAN'S PLAINT.

BUT now domestic cares employ

And busy every sense,

Nor leave one hour of grief or joy
But's furnish'd out from thence :

Save what my little babes afford,
Whom I behold with glee,
When smiling at my humble board,
Or prattling at my knee.

Nor that my Daphne's charms are flown,
These still new pleasures bring,

'Tis these inspire content alone;

'Tis all I've left of Spring.

MASON.

I wish not, dear connubial state,
To break thy silken bands;
I only blame relentless fate,

That every hour demands.

Nor mourn I much my task austere,
Which endless wants impose;
But oh! it wounds my soul to hear
My Daphne's melting woes!

For oft she sighs and oft she weeps,
And hangs her pensive head,
While blood her furrowed finger steeps,
And stains the passing thread.

When orient hills the sun behold,

Our labours are begun;

And when he streaks the west with gold,
The task is still undone.

WOODHOUSE.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold: And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when autumn has blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LORD BYRON.