Classic Poem

A FRAGMENT.

M Y Muse would lead thee to the fair domain,
Where, thron'd in bliss, the Sister Virtues reign:
Known by her heav'nly mein and wide command,
Benign Religion leads the hallow'd band;
Around her brow immortal roses wave,
Giv'n for her triumph o'er the ghastly grave.
For she the sacred path of Jesus trod,
And prov'd death vanquish'd by the victor God.
To him, pale tyrant, now the task is giv'n
To ope to joyful saints the golden gates of heav'n.
Hail! hallow'd queen, what tho' thy piercing sight
Dwells on the regions of eternal light;
Tho' to the snares of sin thou canst oppose
Faith's stedfast rock, on which the just repose;
What tho', whilst prison'd in this earthly cell,
Thy thoughts with cherubs and with seraphs dwell;
Who, pleas'd, for thee the crown and robe prepare,
And eager wish thee in their joys to share:
First-born of heaven, of all the virtues queen,
Yet no assumings stigmatize thy mein.
No scorn of others thy meek eyes express;
No modes peculiar rule thy graceful dress;
Conscious of worth, but yet intent to please,
Thy air is blended majesty and ease.
Thy truths, stupendous to the wondering sage,
The simple infants lowly heart engage.
'Tis thine the whirl of youthful blood to calm;
To palsied hands thou giv'st thy victor palm.
Thou, and thou only, canst unhurt sustain
The fiery trial of distress and pain.
Thine is the glory, unseduc'd, to rove
Through soft prosperity's bewitching grove:
To force profusion from the hearts strong hold,
And give to Charity his wand of gold.
Alike to thee the world's contempt and praise,
Unerring rectitude thy conduct sways.
But, in mortality's last ling'ring hour,
'Tis then thou triumph'st with superior pow'r:
For, as eternity withdraws her veil,
Struck by her rays, the lights of science fail.
The soul, affrighted at the new survey,
Clings to its burden of distemper'd clay,
On the weak aids of failing sense relies,
And, shuddering, turns from the disclosing skies.
Then, whilst around the pow'rs of darkness dance,
And with fresh poisons harb each mortal lance,
'Tis thine to dissipate the hell-bred gloom,
To chace the horrors, that o'er-cloud the tomb.
For as thou spread'st Faith's adamantine shield,
The shafts of Satan to its temper yield;
The foul, compos'd, the untry'd gulph essays,
Then soars to carol everlasting praise.