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In glory, and endow'd thy harp's bright strings
With power, with music, and sublimity-
Enwreath'd thee with immortal offerings-

Stretch'd out the heavens before thee far and free,
And sent thy genius forth through all immensity!-


First from the mount thou saw'st the sea launch'd wide
Through the unfathom'd chanuels of the earth;
Thou saw'st the Light flash from Jehovah's side-
The primal wonders of the world burst forth;
Thou heard'st the Word, that call'd the skies to birth,
And woke the planets to their watch of years;
Thou heard'st creation sing His boundless worth,

While like the flashing of ten thousand spears
Out-sprung the blazing sun amidst the heavenly spheres !


For ever hast thou been a gift of light,-
A voice in the eternity of days,
A presence in the everlasting sight,
Soaring where even seraphs fear to gaze-
Snatching the secret fire of heaven's own rays
Wielding the thunders in thy fearless hold;
The awful hand alone, that made thee, stays

Thy vast ambition—thine aspirings bold, -
And with its touch of might bids thy wild pinions fold.


Who hath not proved the power of poesy,
When from the sepulchres of greatness fled,
He watch'd the clouds of centuries roll by,
And stood and spake with the illustrious dead ! -

Oh! who with Shakspeare could regardless tread-
Unmoved behold the handmaids of his muse
Dispensing beauties, as their garlands shed

Innumerable blossoms of all hues,
Rich with the breath of morn and spring's celestial dews.


And He! who built his temple in the clouds
And made the Heavens his altar-at whose feet
The stars lay dreaming in their misty shrouds,
And angel-echoes sigh'd in music sweet
From many a solemn shrine and high retreat !
He, Bard of Paradise, whose inward sight
Surpass'd all outward vision-so replete,

That blindness follow'd that unbounded light,
As clouds grow doubly dark where broods the lightning's might.


Thine are, O Mind !—the colours which delight
The artist in his visionary mood !-
Thou art the inspiration and the might-
The deep enchantment of his solitude !
What time nor breath, nor sounds of life intrude-
Where Alps on Alps eternally seem piled-
Then is thy best—thy holiest impulse wooed !

Amid the grand, the wonderful, the wild,
For ever have thy loftiest revelations smiled.


The mighty and immortal energies
That crown'd the genius of young Angelo,
And steep'd his spirit in the richest dyes
That nature's wealthiest fountains could bestow;

The tastes, the passions, sentiments, which show
The eloquence of colours—and those fine
Mysterious sympathies that thrill and glow,

Like stars which burn and tremble as they shine,-
Gifting the painter's sight with glories all divine.


Who may behold the works of Raphael's hand
And feel no mountings of the soul within ;
Find not his sphere of intellect expand,
And the creations of the pencil win
His thoughts towards heaven,—to which they are akin!
Ennobling his whole being,-touching chords
Of holiest sweetness,-purifying sin-

Raising a deathless moral that records
The majesty of truth, in tints surpassing words !-


Hues which are immortalities !—for age,
That moulders the high hand which gave

them birth,
Consigns to dust the painter, poet, sage,
Increases but their glory and their worth :-
They are the gifts which dignify the earth !-
Exalt humanity, refine, inspire;
And lend a charm to grief—a grace to mirth!

That wake the finest echoes of the lyreAnd stir the kindling heart with Hope's Promethean fire.



What, though pale penury may haunt the spot
That genius hallows with its earliest flame,
Correggio lives while princes are forgot-
The canvass speaks when kingdoms lose their name.

Where lie the great whose gold was all their fame?
May costly cenotaph--can sculptured tomb-
Save titled ashes from oblivion's claim?-

Yet there be names that years may not consume,
Nor misery corrode—nor death despoil their bloom.


West, Reynolds, Wilson, Lawrence—these are names,
My country!-dear-ay, doubly dear, to thee;
Gems of thine own heart's mine, whose lustre shames
The earlier record of thine history ;-
High denizens of immortality,
Enduring pillars of their native shore,
Whose memories are a people's legacy !

A rich bequeathment, and beloved the more,
For they were good as great, brave spirits born to soar.


'Tis not alone the poesy of form-
The melody of aspect—the fine hue
Of lips half blushing, odorous and warm,
Of eyes like heaven's own paradise of blue;
Nor all the graces that encharm the view
And render beauty still more beautiful ;
But the resemblances that can renew

Past youth, past hopes, past loves, no shade may dull; Affections, years may dim—but never quite annul!


Wresting from death and darkness, undecay'a,
The kindred lineaments we honour'd here ;
The breast on which our infant brow had laid,
The lips that kiss'd away our first brief tear-

The all we lost, ere yet the funeral bier
Convey'd to our young souls how great a blow
Laid desolate the homes we loved so dear;-

Oh, heart !-too early wert thou doom'd to know The grave that held thy sire, held all thy hopes below!


Then, ah!--for ever sacred be the Art
Which gave me all the grave had left of mine!
I gazed upon this portrait till


Remembers every touch and every line ;
And almost do I deem the gift divine,
Direct from heaven, and not from human skill :-
Instinct with love, those noble features shine-

The eyes some new expression seems to fill-
And half I know thee dead-half hope thee living still !

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