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ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON,
BY GRANVILLE PENN.
Cold is the breast, extinct the vital spark, That kindles not to flame at Harold's muse; The mental vision, too, how surely dark, Which, as the anxious wanderer it pursues, Sees not a noble heart, that fain would choose The course to heaven, could that course be found; And, since on earth it nothing fears to lose, Would joy to press that bless'd etherial ground, Where peace, and truth, and life, and friends, and love
I “deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel," Steel'd is the heart that could the thought receive, But warm, affectionate, and quick to feel, Eager in joy, yet not unwont to grieve; And sorely do I view his vessel leaveLike erring bark, of card and chart bereftThe shore to which his soul would love to cleave; Would, Harold, I could make thee know full oft, That bearing thus the helm, the land thou seek'st is left.
Is Harold " satiate with worldly joy ?” “Leaves he his home, his land, without a sigh?” 'Tis half the way to heaven !-oh! then employ That blessed freedom of thy soul, to fly To Him, who, ever gracious, ever nigh, Demands the heart that breaks the world's hard
chain; If early freed, though by satiety, Vast is the privilege that man may gain ;Who early foils the foe, may well the prize obtain.
ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON
Thou lovest Nature with a filial zeal,
The Pyrennean mountains loved to scan, And from the crest of Alps peruse the mighty plan.
“ 'Tis ecstasy to brood o'er flood and fell,” “ To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,' Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flocks that never need a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ;
This is not solitude !-'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's God, and see His stores un
Forget we not the Artist in the art,
Shall Handel's self be lost in Handel's sound?
But Harold“ through sin's labyrinth has run,"
'Tis just; 'tis Harold's due-yet let not this Press heavier on his heart than heaven ordains; What mortal lives, not guilty nor remiss ?
What breast that has not felt remorse's pains ? What human soul so pure, but mark'd by sin's dark
And can this helpless thing, pollute, debased,
Yet is atonement made :-Creation's Lord
To mend the foul defacements of the soul,
Oh! “if, as holiest men have deem'd there be,
All gracious God, to quiet human thought,
ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON.
Did Babylon, in truth, by Cyrus fall ?
“ Then Christ is risen from the dead!"—the first Dear pledge of mortal frames yet mouldering in the
But Harold “ will not look beyond the tomb,"
And languish for their own celestial clime,
There must thou surely live—and of that life
But humbly turn to Him who points the way
Such, the prospect,-such the glorious boon,
Yearning, unconscious, for the light divine;
“Come unto me, all ye by care oppress'd ! Come to my open arms, and I will give you rest!"
Would thou hadst loved through Judah’s courts to
stray ; Would Sion Hill Parnassus' love might share; What joy to hear thy muse's potent lay The sacred honours of that land declare, And all that holy scene engage her care; Where poets harp'd ere Homer's shell was strung, Where heavenly wisdom pour'd her treasures rare,
Long, long ere Athens woke to Solon's song, And truth-inspired seers of after ages sung.
But, thanks for what we have; and for the more Thy muse doth bid the listening ear attend, Nor vainly bids those whom she charm'd before ; Oh! let not then this humble verse offend, Her skill can judge the speaking of a friend; Not zeal presumptuous prompts the cautious strain, But Christian zeal, that would to all extend The cloudless ray and steady calm that reign, Where evangelic truths their empire due maintain.