X.

“That shapeless phantom sinking slow
“Deep down the vast abyss below,
“Darts, thro’ the mists that shroud his frame,
“A horror, nature hates to name!”—­
“Mortal, could thine eyes behold
“All those sullen mists enfold,
“Thy sinews at the sight accurst
“Would wither, and thy heart-strings burst;
“Death would grasp with icy hand
“And drag thee to our grizly band—­
“Away! the sable pall I spread,
“And give to rest th’ unquiet dead—­
“Haste! ere its horrid shroud enclose
  “Thy form, benumb’d with wild affright,
“And plunge thee far thro’ wastes of night,
  “In yon black gulph’s abhorr’d repose!”—­
  As starting at each step, I fly,
  Why backward turns my frantic eye,
    That closing portal past?—­
Two sullen shades half-seen, advance!—­
  On me, a blasting look they cast,
    And fix my view with dang’rous spells,
    Where burning frenzy dwells!—­
Again! their vengeful look—­and now a speechless—­

PERU. 
A
POEM,
IN SIX CANTOS.

TO
MRS. MONTAGU.

While, bending at thy honour’d shrine, the Muse
  Pours, MONTAGU, to thee her votive strain,
Thy heart will not her simple notes refuse,
  Or chill her timid soul with cold disdain.

O might a transient spark of genius fire
  The fond effusions of her fearful youth;
Then should thy virtues live upon her lyre,
  And give to harmony the charm of truth.

Vain wish! they ask not the imperfect lay,
  The weak applause her trembling accents breathe;
With whose pure radiance glory blends her ray,
  Whom fame has circled with her fairest wreathe.

Thou, who while seen with graceful step to tread
  Grandeur’s enchanted round, can’st meekly pause
To rend the veil obscurity had spread
  Where his lone sigh deserted Genius draws;

To lead his drooping spirit to thy fane,
  Where attic joy the social circle warms;
Where science loves to pour her hallow’d strain,
  Where wit, and wisdom, blend their sep’rate charms.

And lure to cherish intellectual powers,
  To bid the vig’rous tides of genius roll,
Unfold, in fair expansion, fancy’s flowers,
  And wake the latent energies of soul;

Far other homage claims than flatt’ry brings
  The little triumphs of the proud to grace: 
For deeds like these a purer incense springs,
  Warm from the swelling heart its source we trace!

Yet not to foster the rich gifts of mind
  Alone can all thy lib’ral cares employ;
Not to the few those gifts adorn, confin’d,
  They spread an ampler sphere of genuine joy.

While pleasure’s lucid star illumes thy bower,
  Thy pity views the distant storm that bends
Where want unshelter’d wastes the ling’ring hour;—­
  And meets the blessing that to heav’n ascends!