.A DRAMATIC ODE. This is a'noble victory, O'er others we by art prevail, But by force we conquer thee, And, alluring not, assail. Vainly didst thou our magic brave, For thou art now our tool, our slave. Then wide around the chorus throw, Peacehe c?nnot, shall not, know ! Then will I seize my destin'd prey, And fix my silent stings within, Nor hope of mercy shall allay Th' eternal consciousnees of sin. Whither should the guilty flee From their weight of misery ? When each flower, that paints the vale, And every odour of the gale, Every blithely-warbling bird, In childhood's hour as blithely heard, Only brings the blasting sense Of departed innocence. When the sun, so warm and bright, Only recals the mental night, And his cool, peaceful sister-star, Does but contrast the inward war, ......... ?Google
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