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THE days of old, though Time has reft
The dazzling splendour which they cast;
Yet many a remnant still is left

To shadow forth the past.

The warlike deed, the classic page,
The lyric torrent, strong and free,
Are lingering o'er the gloom of age,
Like moonlight on the sea.

A thousand years have roll'd along,
And blasted empires in their pride;
And witness'd scenes of crime and wrong,
Till men by nations died.

A thousand summer suns have shone

Till earth grew bright beneath their sway, Since thou, untenanted and lone,

Wert render'd to decay.

The moss-tuft and the ivy-wreath

For ages clad thy fallen mould,

And gladden'd in the Spring's soft breath;

But they grew wan and old.

Now, Desolation hath denied

That even these shall veil thy gloom :

And Nature's mantling beauty died
In token of thy doom.



Alas! for the far years, when clad

With the bright vesture of thy prime,

The proud towers made each wanderer glad,
Who hail'd thy sunny clime!

Alas! for the fond hope, and dream,

And all that won thy children's trust! God cursed-and none may now redeem, Pale city of the dust!



FORGIVE thy foes, nor that alone,
Their evil deeds with good repay;
Fill those with joy who owe thee none,
And kiss the hand upraised to slay.

So does the fragrant sandal bow
In meek forgiveness to its doom,
And o'er the axe, at every blow,
Sheds in abundance rich perfume.


I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran ;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths:
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd;
Their thoughts I cannot measure :
But the least motion which they made,
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.


From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?




THRICE happy he who, by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O! how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisp'rings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O! how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain Honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.


THOU Spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song-
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year,
A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam. And I

Have knelt before my wicker door

To sing my evening song.

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