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'The soul that longs to see my grace,
Is sure my love to gain;
Shall never seek in vain.'
What object, Lord, my soul should move,
It' once compared with thee?
Like what in Christ I see?
Away, ye false delusive toys,
Vain tempters of the mind! Tis here I fix my lasting choice,
For here true bliss I find!
He who hath bent him o'er the dead
And marked the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fixed, yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And,—but for that sad shrouded eye,
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now,
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Where cold obstructions, apathy,
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes,—but for these, and these alone,
Some moments—ay—one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair,—so calm,—so softly sealed,
The first—last look—by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Her's is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath!
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb;
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth.
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,
O happy peasant! O unhappy bard!
VOL. II. G
He lost in errors bis vain heart prefers,
ON THE DEATH OF KING GEORGE III.
Bells toll for peasants, and we heed them not:
We cannot grieve alike for youth and age.
But thee, the age-worn monarch of these realms,
Thy sun was not eclipsed in sudden night,
To spare worse pangs than ever madness proved,
01 what a rapturous change, from dark to light,
Those darkened eyes—a© more obstruct the day,
As death drew near, O! did not angels stand,