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The floods in icy fetters binds,
Or bids the tempest rise?
Above the morning's wings, Beyond the 'sea's remotest tides, Beneath the daedal earth resides
Th' Almighty King of Kings.
BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ.
(Late Poet-Laureat. )
ONCE, I remember well the day, 'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May
Had lost their freshest hues: When every flower on ev'ry hill, In ev'ry vale had drank its fill
Of sun-shine and of dews.
In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime,
To Summer's glowing hand,
Which fan the smiling land.
'Twas then, beside a green-wood shade, Which cloth'd a lawn's aspiring head,
I urg'd my devious way,
So wondrous bright the day.
And now my eyes with transport rove
Unbroken by a cloud!
A full brimm'd river flow'd.
I stop, I gaze; in accents rude,
Burst forth th' unbidden lay ;
And pity e'en the gay.
« These, these are joys alone, I cry;
Thou deign'st to fix thy thronel
These, these are joys alone!
“ Adieu, ye vain low-thoughted cares, Ye human hopes, and human fears,
Ye pleasures and ye pains !" While thus I spake, o'er all my
soul A philosophic calmness stole,
A stoic stillness reigns.
The tyrant passions all subside;
No more my bosom move :
Of universal love.
When lo! a voice, a voice I hear ! 'Twas Reason whisper'd in my ear
These monitory strains : «What mean'st thou, man? would'st thou unbind The ties which constitute thy kind,
The pleasures and the pains?
“ The same Almighty Power unseen,
To Contemplation's eye,
And quicken'd every joy.
« He bids the tyrant passions rage,
And combat each his foe:
And happiness from woe.
« Art thou not man, and dar'st thou find A bliss which leans not to mankind?
Presumptuous thought and vain! Each bliss unshar'd is unenjoy'd, Each power is weak unless employ'd
Some social good to gain.
« Shall light and shade, and warmth and air, With those exalted joys compare,
Which active Virtue feels !
At her triumphant wheels?
« As rest and labour still succeeds
Employ his toilsome day;
To sooth him on his way.
« Enthusiast, go, unstring thy lyre, In vain thou sing'st, if none admire,
How sweet soe'er the strain. And is not thy o'erflowing mind, Unless thou mixest with thy kind,
Benevolent in vain ?