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Melt and dispel, ye spectre doubts that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er—the pangs of nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of heaven undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still
Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill.—



When the sun is laid in bis purple shroud

Bathed by the dews of the sea,
And the moon's pale light through her fleecy cloud,

Shines dimly over me;
In an hour so still the whispering sigh

Of winds breathed o'er the wave,

And to list to the sea bird's funeral cry,
Over the warrior's grave!

Are dearer to me, than the flaunting ray

The glorious sun shoots down
From his sapphire throne in the blaze of day,

Girt with the diamond crown.
O'er mountain and vale, o'er yon misty deep,

O'er man—the lord of all,
This balmiest hour hath poured her sleep,

And spread her drowsy pall.

Oh 1 now to the young enthusiast's soul

Rise aspirations high,
Flung on the rocks, o'er the ceaseless roll,

Of dark immensity.
A blighted heart—and a sleepless eye,

May now step forth unseen,
And wake from their slumber its visions of joy,

On memory's pageant scene.

Each pinnacle crag seems a lordly tower,

Turret, and donjon fence, And each hawthorn glade hath its roseate bowers

Of love—and innocence.

Though wisdom reprove it, let fancy's power

Still chain me to her throne;
Still dear to this heart be the evening hour,

And moonlight—all my own.



St Leon having ruined himself and family by gambling, seeks refuge for his wife and children in foreign countries, frequently enduring the most appalling calamities and distressing privations.

Godwin's Histoey or His Travels.

Time, Twilight. Scene, The interior of a Cottage.


The dreadful thunder storm at length is past;
May God forgive the doubtfulness that swept
In sinful murmurings through my troubled breast;
—I doubt not the benevolence of heaven!

(Looks out at a lattice.)

The gloomy clouds disperse along the sky,

And all is stillness in the open air;

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I see again the mountain's lofty brow
Rising sublime above the forest-shades,
Distant from which, along the shore extends
The level ocean's yet unbroken blue.
When will the moon arise? Its silver smiles
Will soften down the terrors of the scene,
And safer light St Leon to his home.

(She goes to a lamp.)
How very pale this flickering lamp now burns;
Its yellow rays scarce reach the dusky floor,
Blending its mist and gloominess around;
It is indeed a melancholy sight 1
An emblem, as 'tis said, of human hope
Suspended in our sepulchre of care.
Yet will I not repine—urged on by fate,
"Pis ours to wander thus from place to place,
Ruined—despised: the father hath undone
The offsprings of our love—the tempter's art
Ensnared him to lay waste in madd'ning zeal,
Their fortunes i' the world; so our wretched lives
We pine away in penance for the past—
Helpless—and sad; and oft in silent night,
When tears bedew the pillow of my grief,
The voice of duty whispers in mine ear,
—I, as a mother, should be calm and firm;
Meanwhile my children, with dejected mien,

Raising to me their sweet affectionate eyes,
Lisp gentle words, and wear deceiving smiles,
And silent hunger for their daily bread.
St Leon—still I love to breathe his name,
And will upbraid it not—where—where art thou?
Heaven grant amidst the fury of the storm,
When elements the elements assailed,
Like unfed lions battling for their prey,—
Thy all-protecting mercy, like a shield,
Guarded a being, whose most sinful deeds
Have been atoned by all our bitterest tears.
Soft—there are footsteps on the terrace now;
I'll meet him smiling—since the smile of love
Can soothe to peace the troubled brow of thought,
And all the pangs that rend an aching heart.

{Enter St Leon.)


Once more returned—I hasten to receive
Affections sweet—thy beautiful embrace.
How is it with thee now?


'Tis well—quite well!

Time hung a little heavy as it should,

In absence such as thine—of thee I thought,

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