DIE FRÜKLINGSFEYER, FROM KLOPSTOCK:

THE VERNAL ECSTACY.

I will not plunge me in th' abyss of worlds;
Around the first-born sons of radiant light
I will not hover, jubilant who bend,
Adoring bend, in ecstacies entranced.

Only around this earth,

Drop of the bucket, only earth around
I'll rove adoring.-Hallelujah! earth,
Drop as it is, the Godhead too created.

When from th' Almighty hand

Forth shot the vaster planets-the young light

Rushed in bright streams-the seven-fold stars were born;
Thou, drop! then trickledst from th' Almighty hand.
When rushed the day-streams, and the sun uprose,

And floods of radiance poured, as from the hills
Th' o'erwhelming tempest, and Orion girt,
Thou, drop! then trickledst from th' Almighty hand.

What are the countless crowds, the myriads all
That tread it, or have trod ?-Ah! what am I?
Hosanna to th' Almighty!-more than stars,
Than floods of light, than constellations more.

But thou on green-gold wings,

That flutter'st near me, beetle of the spring!
Thou livest too—but not,

Ah! haply not immortal:

I left the world t'adore

Why weep I?-O! forgive,

Forgive these tears a flittering insect draws,

Thou! who for ever art.

'Tis thine alone each rising doubt to solve,

O, thou! who through the vale of death's dark shade
Wilt safely guide me:I shall then discern

If, too, this gilded worm a soul possess.

Art thou but moulded dust,

Child of the spring?-The changeful dust may still
Resume thy being, or new being give,

As wills th' Almighty sire.

Flow fresh my eyes!

In tears of rapture flow.
My harp!

Praise thou the Lord.

Wreath'd is my harp again,

With palm leaves, wreath'd :-I sing the Lord of life.

Here stand I-all around

Is wonder-all omnipotence around.

With shuddering awe I gaze upon creation,
For Thou!

The nameless Thou!

Gav'st it a being.

Soft breezy airs that round my glowing cheeks
Wave your cool freshness, grateful to the heart-
He sends you forth, ye wonder-working powers,
The Lord, th' Eternal.

But now scarce breathe they :-all is dead repose;
Hot, sultry, grows the morn;-

Deep spread the clouds o'er heaven;

He comes, to sight revealed-th' Almighty comes.

Now sweep, rush, whirl the winds,

Rends all the forest, heaves the torrent flood;
Seen as thou canst be, seen to mortal

Now art thou seen, dread Spirit!

eyes,

Deep bends the wood, the torrent raves,—but I
Why sink I not? why fall not on my face?—
Lord! God supreme !-compassionate and kind!
Thou coming power! O look with mercy on me!
Art thou offended, Father of mankind!
That night thus veils thy face?

Yet is this night with blessings big to earth-
Father of all!-offended thou art not.
It comes commission'd, o'er the fattening corn,
The heart-reviving vineyard,-comes to shed
The treasures of thy love.

Father of all!-offended thou art not.
All before thee is still, approaching Power!
All still before thee-e'en this gilded worm
Looks round, as conscious of a present God.
Has it a soul then? May it be immortal?

O that my heart could praise thee as it would!
Still wider, wider now thy glory spreads!-
Deeper the midnight round thee--deeper still,
More richly burdened.

See ye the signals of his march? the flash

Wide streaming round?-the thunder of his voice Hear ye? Jehovah's thunder? the dread peal

Hear ye,

-that rends the concave?

Lord God supreme!

Compassionate and kind!

Praised be thy glorious name!

Prais'd and ador'd!

How sweeps the whirlwind! leader of the storm!

How screams discordant! and, with headlong waves,
Lashes the forest!-
All is now repose

Again new signals press;-enkindled broad,

See ye the lightnings? hear ye from the clouds,
The thunder of the Lord?-Jehovah calls-
Jehovah-and the smitten forest smokes.

But not our cot:

Our heavenly Father bade

Th' o'erwhelming power

Pass o'er our cot, and spare it.

And, now, abruptly, now

Rush heav'n and earth in floods of bounteous rain;

Earth, O, how parch'd! exults;

And heav'n unloads the blessings it contain❜d.

Now comes no more Jehovah clad in storms:

In soft still murmurs now

Jehovah comes;

And broad beneath him bends the bow of

peace.

LONDON INSTITUTION.*

On its being first opened in King's Arms Yard, Coleman Street, under a
Committee chiefly composed of Bankers and Bank Directors.

When the 'Change and the Bank seiz'd the seat of Apollo,
The world stood on tiptoe to see what would follow;
Away flew their cash-and they threaten'd to store
Ev'ry wharf on the Thames with a cargo of lore;

* This little satire was composed after a conversation, in which the author had remarked that it was easy to turn into burlesque the best designed projects; as he would prove. Far from being disposed to ridicule this useful Institution, he was for some years an active member of its committee, and on more than one occasion composed odes, &c. for recitation at its anni

versaries.

While Cam and old Isis, thus robb'd of their right,
Cried the one to the other-Sweet Cousin, good night!
For their glades and their cloisters these traders in truth
Chose a deep recluse warehouse-the scene of their youth,
Where the wings of the breezes that wafted them knowledge,
Flow'd one half from Bedlam, one half Gresham college.
All the books, and all instruments under the sun,
Prints, charts, men and maids-were laid in by the ton;
Gallanté-shows, telescopes, pumps, weavers' looms,
Urns, fish-kettles, warming-pans, pots, mops, and brooms;
All these, as professors were soon to be made,
Were provided as wares to illustrate their trade:
And at top was design'd, could the cash but hold out,
A glass-dome, where its founders might look round about,
Learn how far their example had rous'd other earths,
Mark weathercocks, comets, and calculate births;
And an order was given, as no spy-glass they found
Could pierce the gross fumes that a city surround,
For a set of experiments boldly to try

To drive off the vapours, and clear up

the sky.

But Apollo, who saw what sad work they were making,

Descended from heav'n in a terrible taking,

And drove them all home with a taste of his whip,

From Newton to Crocker, from Science to Scrip.

July, 1814.

PEACE TO THE WORLD-OR,

THE BRITISH SONG.

Peace to the world!-the deed is done;
The field is fought, the battle won;
The Scourge of man his hour has run,

And foaming bites the ground.