Which oft, with foretaste kind, await On Virtue, in this transient state, A weak but rapturous glance of Immortality ! REV. J. WHITEHOUSE. MADNESS. SWELL the clarion, sweep the string, All thy answers, Echo, bring, Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring: "Tis Madness' self inspires. Hail, awful Madness, hail! Thy realm extends, thy powers prevail, Far as the voyager spreads his venturous sail. Nor best nor wisest are exempt from thee; Folly Folly's only free. Hark! to the astonish'd ear The gale conveys a strange tumultuous sound. They now approach, they now appear,― Frenzy leads her chorus near, And demons dance around. Pride-Ambition idly vain, Revenge and Malice swell her train,- And injured Merit with a downcast eye Loud the shouts of Madness rise, Rough as the wintry wave that roars Wild raving to the' unfeeling air, The fetter'd Maniac foams along (Rage the burden of his jarring song), [hair. No sympathies like these his soul employ,— Not so the lovelorn Maid, By too much tenderness betray'd; Her gentle breast no angry passion fires, She yet retains her wonted flame, Incessant sighs, Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care, Now, sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings, "Tis he-the Momus of the flighty train- And plots his frolics quaint and unsuspected wiles. Laughter was there-but mark that groan, 'Give the knife, demons, or the poison'd bowl, Who's this wretch, with horror wild?— Sunk in the emphasis of grief, Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief.- To warm and cheer the human mind, To point where sits, in love array'd, The God, the Father of us all! First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious Till Superstition, fiend of woe, Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow, [scene, And spread deep shades our view and Heaven between. Drawn by her pencil the Creator stands (His beams of mercy thrown aside), With thunder arming his uplifted hands, Hope, at the frown aghast, yet lingering, flies, And, dash'd on Terror's rocks, Fate's best dependance lies. [throng, But ah!-too thick they crowd,-too close they Nature shudders at the sight: Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale, But o'er the hapless group, low drop Compassion's veil. PENROSE. HYMN TO HOPE. 1761. Μενη δ'αυτοθι ΕΛΠΙΣ εν ἀρρηκτοισι δόμοισιν SUN of the soul! whose cheerful ray Darts o'er this gloom of life a smile; Sweet Hope, yet further gild my way, HES. Yet light my weary steps awhile, O, come with such an eye and mien Riots on distant days with thee, O, come! and to my pensive eye Nor, gentle Hope, forget to bring The family of Youth and Spring; On stream or flower or field or sky: Attended thus by Belau's streams, |