Ah! rather gaze where science' hallow'd light Resplendent shines: ah! rather lead thy son Through all her mystic paths To drink the sacred spring. Let calm philosophy supply the void, And fill the vacant heart; lead calmly on Along the unvaried path, To age's drear abode; And teach how dreadful death to happiness, What thousand horrors wait the last adieu, When every tie is broke, And every charm dissolv'd. Then only dreadful; friendly to the wretch Who wanes in solitary listlessness, Nor knows the joys of life, Nor knows the dread of death. BION. * * * * * HOSPITALITY. "Lay low yon impious trappings on the ground, Bend, superstition, bend thy haughty head, Be mine supremacy, and mine alone:" Thus from his firm-establish'd throne, Replete with vengeful fury, HENRY said. High Reformation lifts her iron rod, But lo! with stern and threatful mien, Fury and rancour desolate the scene, Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod. Ah! hold awhile your angry hands; Ah! here delay your king's commands, For Hospitality will feel the wound! In vain the voice of reason cries, Whilst uncontroul'd the regal mandate flies. Thou, AVALON! in whose polluted womb The patriot monarch found his narrow tomb; Where now thy solemn pile, whose antique head With niche-fraught turrets awe-inspiring spread, Stood the memorial of the pious age? Where wont the hospitable fire In cheering volumes to aspire, And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage. Low lie thy turrets now, The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearth; The dome which luxury yrear'd, Though Hospitality was there rever'd, Now, from its shatter'd brow, With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth. Ye minstrel throng, In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire, No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive lyre: The walls, whose trophied sides along Once rung the harp's energic sound, Now damp and moss-ymantled load the ground; No more the bold romantic lore Shall spread from Thule's distant shore; No more intrepid Cambria's hills among, In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of song. Ah, Hospitality! soft Pity's child, Where shall we seek thee now? Genius! no more thy influence mild Shall gild Affliction's clouded brow; No more thy cheering smiles impart One ray of joy to Sorrow's heart; No more within the lordly pile Wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile.