"Leur raison, qu'ils prennent pour guide, ne presente a leur esprit que des conjectures et des embarras; les absurdities ou ils tombent en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les Veritas dont la hauteur les 6tonne; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mysteres incompr6hensibles, ils suivent l'une apres l'autre d'incomprehensibles erreurs."
Bosstjet, Oraisons Funfbres.
When the young Eagle, with exulting eye,
Has learn'd to dare the splendour of the sky,
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course,
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source;
Will his free wing, from that majestic height,
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light,
Which, far below, with evanescent fire,
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire?
No! still through clouds he wins his upward way,
And proudly claims his heritage of day!
—And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze
The dayspring from on high hath pour'd its blaze,
Turn from that pure effulgence, to the beam
Of earth-born light, that sheds a treacherous gleam,
VOL. III. A
Luring the wanderer, from the star of faith,
To the deep valley of the shades of death?
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given,
For the high birthright of its hope in Heaven?
If lost the gem which empires could not buy,
What yet remains ?—a dark eternity!
Is earth still Eden ?—might a Seraph guest,
Still 'midst its chosen bowers delighted rest?
Is all so cloudless and so calm below,
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show?
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate,
Rejects the promise of a brighter state,
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace,
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base?
Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng,
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song,
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high,
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die \
*Tis well, thine eye is yet undimm'd by time,
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime;
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice,
And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice I
But life hath sterner tasks; e'en youth's brief hours
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil,
Are few and distant on the desert soil;
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling—Man!
Earth's noblest sons the hitter cup have shared—
Proud child of reason! how art thou prepared?
When years, with silent might, thy frame have
bow'd,
And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud,
Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain
With the bright images of pleasure's train?
Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more,
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathom'd grave!
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call,
She who, like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all?
Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her
plume,
That might have raised thee far above the tomb,
And hush'd the only voice whose angel tone
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!
For she was born beyond the stars to soar,
And kindling at the source of life, adore;
Thou could'st not, mortal! rivet to the earth
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth;
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free,
And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee.
Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft,^
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left,
Andj haply, one whose strong affection's power
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's hour,
Still with fond care supports thy languid head,
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.
But thou whose thoughts have no blest home
above!
Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to love?
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest,
Within that hallow'd shrine—a parent's breast,
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie,
On one frail idol—destined but to die;
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light,
Where sever'd souls, made perfect, re-unite?
Then tremble I cling to every passing joy,
Twined with the life a moment may destroy!
If there be sorrow in a parting tear,
Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine ear!
If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown,
Find more than anguish in the thought—'tis gone!
Go! to a voice such magic influence give,
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live;
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul,
And let a glance the springs of thought control;
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight,
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust,
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust!
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,
Think on that dread "for ever"—and despair!
And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs, To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds.
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