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For when creation's wonder-works we see,
We feel within us the divinity!
Whence springs this holy feeling? from delight
In looking up to God through works so bright!
Here might Zeluco for a moment feel
(But for a moment) a religious zeal.
Thus Satan gazed on Paradise awhile,
And half forgot his hate, revenge, and guile.
WE need not fear, in these enlighten'd times,
Hildebrand's power, or Alexander's crimes :
Or that fierce Pope, unspiritual lord
Of Roman faith, who grasp'd the temporal sword.
But here is Superstition's last strong-hold:
Still here, release from Purgatory's sold;
And here the women, pious in their way,
At noon read Casti,† though at eve they pray :
How eloquent their looks; beneath the lashes
Of their dark eyes the soul of passion flashes!
Alternately they read their prayers, and paint;
Now woo a lover, now invoke a saint!
Such are the Portias, the Cornelias now,
So well is heeded here the marriage vow.
CASTI, a profligate writer, author of certain "Novelle," as Forsyth says, "too excellently wicked."
ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF HIS DAUGHTER.
THIS is indeed to all a lovely morn:
But chief to thee, for on this day was born
Thy lovely daughter, lovelier with a mind-
O think I flatter not-how pure, refined!
Pure as the dreams of holiest saints, and mild
As the soft slumbers of an infant child.
Yet 'tis possess'd of wisdom, wit, and sense :
Her eyes beam forth that mind's intelligence.
Thy smiles paternal, faintly tell us now
What genuine raptures in thy bosom glow.
The fulness of delight is scarce exprest
By words; we only see that thou art blest.
IN IMITATION OF A GREAT POET
HAD I the wit of Newstead's noble bard,
I'd sacrifice it all, again to be
The child I was, when on that smooth
green sward I drove my hoop along with mickle glee, Or climb'd, with eager haste, yon cherry-tree. Happy are they who need not e'er regret
The long-past days of careless infancy;
Whom friends have ne'er betray'd, nor knaves beset, Who never have been caught in woman's subtle net.
Of this enough, the storm has ceased to rage;
I live-but how, it matters not,—I live !—
"All, all is vanity "-thus spoke the sage:
Yet there remains one pleasure-'tis to give.
With some, 'tis pouring water through a sieve,
An endless folly, an excessive waste:
To feed their drones, these lordlings rob the hive; They waste their wealth on fools or dames unchaste; On gems, or jewels rare-these children "have a taste.”
DIVES had feasts at home, and many came
To see the strange inventions of the night;
Minstrels were in his halls, resembling flame-
The colour of their garments was as bright;
Ladies were clad in silk, all lily white:
While Burgundy, from golden goblets pour'd,
Freshen❜d the heart of man with new delight,
And boon companions gather'd round his board,
Pledging the frequent health of their all-liberal lord.
But what is DIVES now?-a misanthrope
A snarling cynic, basking in the sun :
O'ercharged with lust, he gave his passion scope;
A self-tormentor, now his course is run,
Mingling with fellow-men, yet loving none.
Divine Charissa calls on him in vain
Though fools have robb'd thee, do not therefore shun
The sad retreat of penury and pain!"
Sullen he stalks apart, and eyes her with disdain.