Illusions vain! Can sacred Peace reside, Where sordid gold the breast alarms, Where cruelty inflames the eye of Pride, And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure's arms? Ambition! these are thine; These from the soul erase the form divine; These quench the animating fire That warms the bosom with sublime desire. Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel, Hate rides tremendous on the o'erwhelming brow, And midnight Rancour grasps the cruel steel, Blaze the funereal flames, and sound the shrieks of Woe. IV. 2. From Albion fled, thy once beloved retreat, What region brightens in thy smile, Creative Peace, and underneath thy feet Sees sullen flowers adorn the rugged soil? In bleak Siberia blows, Waked by thy genial breath, the balmy rose? Waved over by thy magic wand, Does life inform fell Libya's burning sand? Or does some isle thy parting flight detain, Where roves the Indian through primeval shades, Haunts the pure pleasures of the woodland reign, And led by Reason's ray the path of Nature treads? IV. 3. On Cuba's utmost steep, [1] Far leaning o'er the deep, The Goddess' pensive form was seen. Her robe of Nature's varied green Waved on the gale; grief dimm'd her radiant eyes, Her swelling bosom heaved with boding sighs: She eyed the main; where, gaining on the view. Emerging from the ethereal blue, 'Midst the dread pomp of war Gleam'd the Iberian streamer from afar. She saw; and, on refulgent pinions borne, Slow wing'd her way sublime, and mingled with the morn. [Footnote 1: This alludes to the discovery of America by the Spaniards under Columbus. These ravagers are said to have made their first descent on the islands in the Gulf of Florida, of which Cuba is one.] ODE ON LORD HAY'S BIRTHDAY. 1 A muse, unskill'd in venal praise, Unstain'd with flattery's art; Who loves simplicity of lays Breathed ardent from the heart; While gratitude and joy inspire, Resumes the long unpractised lyre, To hail, O HAY, thy natal morn: No gaudy wreath of flowers she weaves, But twines with oak the laurel leaves, Thy cradle to adorn. 2 For not on beds of gaudy flowers Thine ancestors reclined, Where sloth dissolves, and spleen devours All energy of mind. To hurl the dart, to ride the car, To stem the deluges of war, And snatch from fate a sinking land; Trample the invader's lofty crest, And from his grasp the dagger wrest, And desolating brand: 3