Of Thee, proclaimed by every found, Declares, yet not defines Thy light; Who haft but one name-INFINITE. All men on earth may hear and treasure The more this vain world's pleasures cloy; So when the feeble eyeball fixes With rofy clouds that towards it run; Wood, meadow, hill, and pleafant glade, And the clear bosom of the sky. LAMARTINE. III. OLD AGE. I. AM old and blind! Men point to me as fmitten by God's frown, Afflicted and deferted of my mind, Yet I am not caft down. II. I am weak, yet strong— I murmur not that I no longer fee Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, III. O Merciful One, When men are fartheft, then Thou art moft near; IV. Thy glorious face Is leaning towards me,-and its holy light V. On my bended knee I recognise Thy purpose clearly fhown- VI. I have nought to fear; My darkness is the fhadow of Thy wing- Can come no evil thing. VII. Oh! I feem to ftand Trembling where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in the radiance of Thy finless land Which eye hath never seen. VIII, Vifions come and go Shapes of refplendent beauty round me throng— IX. It is nothing now, When heaven is opening on my fightless eyes, When airs of Paradise refresh my brow, My being fills with rapture-waves of thought XI. Give me now my lyre! I feel the strivings of a gift divine; Lit by no skill of mine. MILTON.* *See Preface respecting the Authorship of this sublime ode. IV. THE BURIAL OF MOSES. B Y Nebo's lovely mountain, On this fide Jordan's wave, In a vale of the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave. But no man dug that fepulchre, And no one faw it e'er ; For the Angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral Comes, when the night is done, Or the crimson streak on Ocean's cheek Noifeleffly as the spring time, Her creft of verdure waves, So, without found of mufic, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown Perchance fome bald old eagle, Looked on the wondrous fight; Still fhuns the hallowed spot; For beaft and bird have feen and heard But when the warrior dieth, With arms reversed and muffled drums, Follow the funeral car; They fhow the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his matchless steed, Amid the nobleft of the land And give the bard an honoured place, In the great minster's transept high, Where lights like glories fall, While the sweet choir fings, and the organ rings This was the braveft warrior This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philofopher Traced with his golden pen, |