A DESCRIPTIVE ODE.
49
Northward the Demon's eyes are cast
O'er yonder bare and sterile waste,
Where, born to hew and heave the block,
Man, lost in ignorance and toil,
Becomes associate to the soil,
And his heart hardens like his native rock.
On the bleak hills, with flint o'erspread,
No blossoms rear the purple head;
No shrub perfumes the Zephyrs' breath,
But o'er the cold and cheerless down
Grim Desolation seems to frown,
Blasting the ungrateful soil with partial death.
