In adamantine chains shall death be bound,
And hells grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air,
Explores the lost, the wand'ring sheep directs,
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects;
The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms:
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage,
The promis's father of the future age.
No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more;
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the proud faulchion in a ploughshare end:
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son
Shall finish what his short-liv’d sire begun;
Their vines' a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field.
The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudđen verdure rise;
· And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear
New falls of water murm’ring in his ear.
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods.

Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn,
The spiry fir, and shapely box adorn;
To leafless shrubs the flow'ring palm succeed,
And od'rous myrtle to the noisome weed.
The lambs with wolves shall

graze

the verdant mead, And boys in flow'ry bands the tyger lead; The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk, and speckled snake; Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongues shall innocently play.

Rise, crown'd with light, imperial SALEM, rise! Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn; See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barb'rous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with product of Sabæan springs! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See Heav'n its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day!

No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her silver horn;
But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O’erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Reveald, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his saving pow'r remains;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns.

AN

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

GRAY,

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

a

Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turfin many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

Theswallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdystroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, to these impute the fault,

If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro’the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can story'd urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flatt'ry soothe the dull, cold'ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.