Behind the counters take their places, And humbly do petition To dress the booths with flowers and sweets, As fine as any May-day, Where Charity with Fashion meets, And keeps her play-day. DIRGE: WRITTEN NOVEMBER 1808. PURE spirit! O where art thou now! O whisper to my soul! O let some soothing thought of thee, "Tis not for thee the tears I shed, Thy sufferings now are o'er; The sea is calm, the tempest past, On that eternal shore. No more the storms that wrecked thy peace Shall tear that gentle breast; Nor Summer's rage, nor Winter's cold, Thy poor, poor frame molest. Thy peace is sealed, thy rest is sure, My sorrows are to come; Awhile I weep and linger here, Then follow to the tomb. And is the awful veil withdrawn, In deep impenetrable gloom, The secrets of the skies? O, in some dream of visioned bliss, Where, on the bosom of thy God, Thou rest'st from human woe! Thence may thy pure devotion's flame On me, on me descend; To me thy strong aspiring hopes, Thy faith, thy fervours lend. Let these my lonely path illume, And teach my weakened mind To welcome all that's left of good, To all that's lost resigned. Farewell! With honour, peace, and love, Be thy dear memory blest! Thou hast no tears for me to shed, When I too am at rest. THE UNKNOWN GOD. To learned Athens, led by fame, As once the man of Tarsus came, Midst idol altars as he stood, O'er sculptured marble, brass and wood, He rolled his awful eyes. But one, apart, his notice caught, That seemed with higher meaning fraught, Graved on the wounded stone; Nor form nor name was there expressed; Deep reverence filled the musing breast, Perusing, "To the God unknown." |