The conqueror
of conquerors, and lord
Of desolation ?-Lo! the shadows fly,
The hours and days, and years and centuries,
They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall,
The young are old, the old are in their graves.
Heard'st thou that shout? It rent the vaulted skies;
It was the voice of people,-mighty crowds,-
Again! 'tis hush'd-Time speaks, and all is hush'd;
In the vast multitude now reigns alone
Unruffled solitude. They all are still;
All-yea, the whole-the incalculable mass,
Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains.
Rear thou aloft thy standard.-Spirit, rear
Thy flag on high, and glory in thy strength.
But do thou know the season yet shall come,
When from its base thine adamantine throne
Shall tumble; when thine arm shall cease to strike,
Thy voice forget its petrifying power;
When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more.
Yea, he doth come-the mighty champion comes,
Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death wound,
Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors,
And desolate stern Desolation's lord.
Lo! where he cometh! the Messiah comes!
The King! the Comforter! the Christ!-He comes
To burst the bonds of Death, and overturn
The power of Time.-Hark! the trumpet's blast
Rings o'er the heavens! They rise, the myriads
rise-
Even from their graves they spring, and burst the
Of torpor,-He has ransom'd them,
Forgotten generations live again,
Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old,
Beyond the flood:-the righteous of their times
Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy.
The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap
Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave,
And heritor with her of Heaven,—a flower
Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain
Of native guilt, even in its early bud,
And, hark! those strains, how solemnly serene
They fall, as from the skies-at distance fall-
Again more loud—the halleluiahs swell;
The newly risen catch the joyful sound;
They glow, they burn; and now with one accord
Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song
Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb
Who bled for mortals.
Yet there is peace for man.-Yea, there is peace
Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene;
When from the crowd, and from the city far,
Haply he may be set (in his late walk
O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the boughs
Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone,
And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys
The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail,
And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time
Will waft him to repose, to deep repose,
Far from the unquietness of life-from noise
And tumult far-beyond the flying clouds,
Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene,
Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no
PICTURED in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet
Our infant days, our infant joys, to greet;
To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene,
The village churchyard, and the village green,
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade,
The
mossy
seat beneath the hawthorn shade,
The whitewash'd cottage, where the woodbine grew,
And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew!
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze,
To view the unclouded skies of former days!
* This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions written when about the age of fourteen.
Beloved age of innocence and smiles,
When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles.
When the gay heart, to life's sweet dayspring true,
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.
Bless'd Childhood, hail!-Thee simply will I sing,
And from myself the artless picture bring;
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,
Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more,
And every stump familiar to my sight
Recalls some fond idea of delight.
This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;
Here did I love at evening to retreat,
And muse alone, till in the vault of night,
Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light.
Here once again, remote from human noise,
I sit me down to think of former joys; [more,
Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once
And once again each infant walk explore,
While as each grove and lawn I recognize,
My melted soul suffuses in my eyes.
And oh! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort To distant scenes, and picture them to thought; Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy; Bless'd Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, Back to my youth my retrospective view; Recall with faithful vigour to my mind Each face familiar, each relation kind;
And all the finer traits of them afford,
Whose general outline in my heart is stored.
In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls,
The village matron kept her little school,
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule;
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ;
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean;
Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair,
Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care;
And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn,
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn.
Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes,
A pair of spectacles their want supplies;
These does she guard secure, in leathern case,
From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place.
Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain,
The low vestibule of learning's fane;
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way,
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display.
Much did I grieve on that ill fated morn
When I was first to school reluctant borne ;
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd;
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept,
Το my lone corner broken-hearted crept, [kept.
And thought of tender home, where anger never
But soon inured to alphabetic toils,
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles;
First at the form, my task for ever true,
A little favourite rapidly I grew:
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight,
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight;
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