Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, And HOPE attends, companion of the way, Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day! In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere That gems the starry girdle of the year; In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, Pure from their God, created millions dwell, Whose names and natures, unrevealed below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know; For, as Iona’s saint,[26] a giant form, Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm (When o’er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar From Kilda to the green Ierne’s shore; So, when thy pure and renovated mind This perishable dust hath left behind, Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles embosomed in the main; Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, And light and life in mingling torrent ran; From whence each bright rotundity was hurled, The throne of God,—the centre of the world! Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung That suasive HOPE hath but a Syren tongue! True; she may sport with life’s untutored day, Nor heed the solace of its last decay, The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, And part, like Ajut—never to return![27] But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage The grief and passions of our greener age, Though dull the close of life, and far away Each flower that hailed the dawning of the day; Yet o’er her lovely hopes, that once were dear, The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, And weep their falsehood, though she love them still! Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled, The king of Judah mourned his rebel child! Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy Smiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy! My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried: Oh! that for thee thy father could have died! For bloody was the deed, and rashly done, That slew my Absalom!—my son!—my son! Unfading HOPE! when life’s last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life’s eternal day— Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phœnix spirit burns within!