Were  every  flower  that  bloom'd  the  same  ;
The  sun's  own  ever-beauteous  ray
Seems  loveliest  at  the  birth  of  day  ;
And  day  would  soon  be  tedious  light


OR,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  DRUIDS.  3?

Did  we  ne'er  see  the  shades  of  night ;
E'en  joy  itself  would  pall  and  cloy,
But  for  the  tear's  and  sigh's  alloy.
"  Vega,  look  round  this  grove  so  fair.
There's  nought  but  prayer  and  praises  here ;

Could  that  sublime  wild  scene  around

Speak  to  its  God  in  utter'd  sound.
Deep  as  itself,  its  voice  would  be

One  of  such  stern  solemnity.
As  every  supplication  low

And  full  was  breathed  in  utterance  slow ;

Or,  when  in  hallelujahs  raised.
Had  been  so  glorious  when  it  praised  ; —

That  man — whose  consciousness  of  wrong

Must  ever  make  his  prayer,  his  song.
Moan  through  the  ruins  of  his  breast,

A  faltering,  trembling  thing  at  best, —

Had  shrunk  before  warm  nature's  sense,

Ashamed  at  his  own  utterance  ;

Had  vainly  tried  his  plaint  to  pour,

And  lost  the  power  to  adore ;


38  AGABUS  ;

His  heart  abash'd  had  sunk  unstrung.
And  muteness  ever  seal'd  his  tongue.
"  Listen,  my  child,  and  when  I  am  no  more.
What  I  would  tell  thee  now  in  memory  store :

Ponder  it  well  and  often  ;  it  may  prove,

Vega,  the  last  fond  lesson  of  my  love.
Long  did  I  search  for  happiness  ;  but  where,

Where  was  its  home  upon  this  earthly  sphere  ?

Did  it,  unseen,  with  silent  Nature  rest .''

Or  was  its  dwelling  in  man's  hidden  breast  ?

I  asked  the  Sea,  the  glad  unfetter'd  sea !

Does  Happiness,  bright  Ocean,  dwell  with  thee  ?

A  broken  mast  upon  a  coming  wave

Was  all  the  answer  its  wild  waters  gave.
