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by a slave.
127
Ye subterraneous worlds attend
And bid your chorus flow.
Ye vast volcanoes yell,
Whence fiery cliffs are hurled;
And all ye liquid oceans swell
Beneath the solid world.
Ye cataracts combine,
Nor let the pæan cease—
The universal concert join,
Thou dismal precipice.
But halt my feeble tongue,
My weary muse delays:
But, oh my soul, still float along
Upon the flood of praise!
ON THE SILENCE OF A YOUNG LADY,
On account of the imaginary flight of her suitor.
Oh, heartless dove! mount in the skies,
Spread thy soft wing upon the gale,
Or on thy sacred pinions rise,
Nor brood with silence in the vale,
Breathe on the air thy plaintive note,
Which oft has filled the lonesome grove,
