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Shall make your rising bosom feel
How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet
With eager speed I dart
I seize you in the vacant air,
'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour
And so shall flash my love-charged eye
TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY
AWAY, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh, The peevish offspring of a sickly hour!
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power, When the blind gamester throws a luckless die.
Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train:
To-morrow shall the many-coloured main
Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time
Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate;
Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
There shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown Round his tired limbs to wrap the purple vest; And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest! Barter for food the jewels of his crown.
A DESULTORY POEM, WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OF 1794.
THIS is the time, when most divine to hear,
As with a Cherub's trump: and high upborne,
Who hymned the song of peace o'er Bethlehem's fields!
Yet thou more bright than all the angel blaze,
Invisible (by symbols only seen)
With a peculiar and surpassing light
Shines from the visage of the oppressed good man,
As thou, meek Saviour! at the fearful hour When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer Harped by Archangels, when they sing of mercy! Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throne
Diviner light filled Heaven with ecstasy! Heaven's hymnings paused: and Hell her yawning mouth
Closed a brief moment.
Lovely was the death
Of Him whose life was Love! Holy with power He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beamed Manifest Godhead, melting into day
What floating mists of dark idolatry
Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Sire:
Dim recollections; and thence soared to Hope,
We and our Father one!
And blest are they,
Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven,
Him Nature's essence, mind, and energy!
Their's too celestial courage, inly armed---
Who the Creator love, created might
within their tents no terrors walk.
For they are holy things before the Lord
Aye unprofaned, though Earth should league with
God's altar grasping with an eager hand
Fear, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch,