24 HISTORICAL SKETCH. " 'Tis mine your bosoms to inspire With genius' warmest, briglitest fire ; 'Tis yours, in turn, Wtiile pressing for the shrine of Fame, To swell her records with each name, To make this heaven-enkindled flame For ever burn. " To flatter title, birth, or state. The poorly rich, or meanly great, Was never given So rich a boon on Nature's part : Oh, never thus degrade an art, Designed to lift the human heart From earth to heaven !
" And envy not the cobweb-wreaths That many a modern rhymer weaves. His brows to gi'ace ; For these are but Mimosa's form Amid Boreas' wint'ry storm, Or hoar-frost 'mid the blushes warm Of Phoebus' face. " And e'en the well-earned fame refuse Of Milton's, Pope's, and Thompson's muse ; Though fresh shall bloom Their laurels in the muse's page, And each historian's pen engage, Though they themselves from age to age Sleep in the tomb. " Nay, copy not the noblest lays Of ancient or of modern days. The genuine bard Dashes all rules of art aside, And, taking Nature for his guide. Reaps, as he roams creation wide, A rich reward. " For what, my child, is genuine song ? 'Tis not, as Fashion's giddy throng So often deem. The far-fetched, witty, odd conceit. Which all may write, as all repeat ; Nor number, measure, rhyme, nor feet That gild each theme. " It is an undefined control That fires, transports, illumes the soul With secret sway ; And, reckless as to phrase or form. Bursts forth in language bold and warm, Like sunshine blazing through the storm Of winter's day. " 'Tis not pale Cynthia's feeble light, Faint-glimmering through a cheerless night, Cold, still, profound ; 'Tis not a gloomy, stagnant lake, Whose sleep no babbling rivulets break ; 'Tis not the breeze that scarce can wake The echo's sound. " It is the brilliant northern dawn, In all the changeful colors drawn That bards describe ; 'Tis now a river deep and strong, Rolling in majesty along ; Anon, a whirlwind 'mid the throng Of Flora's tribe. " 'Tis now the thunder's awful roar. Borne by ten thousand echoes o'er The vault of heaven ; Now, the swift lightning's vivid rays. As o'er the clouds it lambent plays ; Anon, the dread volcano's blaze, With fury di'iven. " 'Tis now the pine's majestic form Which, heedless of the winter's storm. Is seen to bloom From age to age in youthful prime ; And now a pyramid sublime, That falls but with the fall of Time, And shares his tomb." She ceased. Around her sainted head An arrowy sphere of radiance spread, Intensely bright ; And, mounting high on wings of wind, She soared through ether unconfined. And left a brilliant trace behind, Of vivid light. So, sinking in the western main, Far up the heaven a lucid train Bright Sol displays : So, darting through exterior skies. In crimson paths, the fire-ball flies. And for a moment dims our eyes With daazling blaze. A holy silence reigned around ; And, as I left the enchanted ground Where late she stood, Diviner spirits hovered there, More fragrant breathed the balmy air, And the full moou showed doubly fair Ohio's flood.
