His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile-strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies

His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth :—there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of 'rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts :—not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity-the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy.
I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,

And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

To be-or not to be ?—that is the question..--
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them ?-To die-to sleep-
No more ;-and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to~'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die—to sleep
To sleep!-perchance to dream;-ay, there's the rub;-
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life ;
But that the dread of something after death,

(That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns) puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of ?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all :
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

THE PASSIONS, AN ODE.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting :
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid:
And back recoiled, he knew not why,

Even at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rushed, his

eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair

Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air :

'Twas sad by fits-by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all her song:

And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden

hair. And longer had she sung—but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose : He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down;

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!

And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat ; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from Thy numbers, JEALOUSY, to nought were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state ;
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed :

And now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale MELANCHOLY sat retired ;

And, from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow hörn her pensive soul :

And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

(Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing)
In hollow murmurs died away.
But o, how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When CHEERFULNESS, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,

The Hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen,

Peeping from forth their alleys green:
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids,

Amid the festal-sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing;