From The Castle In The Air, To The Little Corner Of The World

In the region of clouds, where the whirlwinds arise,
My castle of fancy was built;
The turrets reflected the blue from the skies,
And the windows with sunbeams were gilt.
The rainbow sometimes, in its beautiful state,
Enamel'd the mansion around;
And the figures that fancy in clouds can create,
Supplied me with gardens and ground.
I had grottoes, and fountains, and orange tree groves,
I had all that enchantment has told;
I had sweet shady walks, for the Gods and their - Loves,
I had mountains of coral and gold.

But a storm that I felt not, had risen and roll'ds
While wrapp'd in a slumber I lay;
And when I look'd out in the morning, behold
My Castle was carried away.

It pass'd over rivers, and valleys, and groves,
The world it was all in my view;
I thought of my friends, of their fates, of their loves,
And often, full often of You.

At length it came over a beautiful scene,
That nature in silence had made;
The place was but small, but 'twas sweetly serene
And checkered with sunshine and shade.

I gazed and I envied with painful goodwill,
And grew tired of my seat in the air;
When all of a sudden my Castle stood still,
As if some attraction was there.

Like a lark from the sky it came fluttering down,
And placed me exactly in view,
When whom should I meet in this charming retreat,
This corner of calmness, but You.

Delighted to find you in honor and ease,
I felt no more sorrow, nor pain;
But the wind coming fair, I ascended the breeze,
And went back with my Castle again.

An Address To Lord Howe

The rain pours down, the city looks forlorn,
And gloomy subjects suit the howling morn;
Close by my fire, with door and window fast,
And safely shelter'd from the driving blast,
To gayer thoughts I bid a day's adieu,
To spend a scene of solitude with you.

So oft has black revenge engross'd the care
Of all the leisure hours man finds to spare;
So oft has guilt, in all her thousand dens,
Call'd for the vengeance of chastising pens;

That while I fain would ease my heart on you,
No thought is left untold, no passion new.
From flight to flight the mental path appears,
Worn with the steps of near six thousand years,
And fill'd throughout with every scene of pain,
From George the murderer down to murderous Cain
Alike in cruelty, alike in hate,
In guilt alike, but more alike in fate,
Cursed supremely for the blood they drew,
Each from the rising world, while each was new.

Go, man of blood! true likeness of the first,
And strew your blasted head with homely dust:
In ashes sit-in wretched sackcloth weep,
And with unpitied sorrows cease to sleep.
Go haunt the tombs, and single out the place
Where earth itself shall suffer a disgrace.
Go spell the letters on some moldering urn,
And ask if he who sleeps there can return.

Go count the numbers that in silence lie,
And learn by study what it is to die;
For sure your heart, if any heart you own,
Conceits that man expires without a groan;
That he who lives receives from you a grace,
Or death is nothing but a change of place:

That peace is dull, that joy from sorrow springs
And war the most desirable of things.
Else why these scenes that wound the feeling mind,
This sport of death-this cockpit of mankind!
Why sobs the widow in perpetual pain?
Why cries the orphan, 'Oh! my father's slain!'
Why hangs the sire his paralytic head,
And nods with manly grief-'My son is dead!'
Why drops the tear from off the sister's cheek,
And sweetly tells the misery she would speak?
Or why in sorrow sunk, does pensive John
To all the neighbors tell, 'Poor master's gone!'

Oh I could I paint the passion that I feel,
Or point a horror that would wound like steel,
To thy unfeeling, unrelenting mind,
I'd send destruction and relieve mankind.
You that are husbands, fathers, brothers, all
The tender names which kindred learn to call;
Yet like an image carved in massy stone,
You bear the shape, but sentiment have none;
Allied by dust and figure, not with mind,
You only herd, but live not with mankind,

Since then no hopes to civilize remain,
And mild philosophy has preached in vain,
One prayer is left, which dreads no proud reply,
That he who made you breathe will make you die.

The Strange Story Of Korah, Dathan, And Abiram

Old ballads sing of Chevy Chase,
Beneath whose rueful shade,
Full many a valiant man was slain
And many a widow made.

But I will tell of one much worse,
That happ'd in days of yore,
All in the barren wilderness,
Beside the Jordan shore,

Where Moses led the children forth,
Call'd chosen tribes of God,
And fed them forty years with quails,
And ruled them with a rod.

A dreadful fray once rose among
These self-named tribes of I Am;
Where Korah fell, and by his side
Fell Dathan and Abiram.

An earthquake swallowed thousands up,
And fire came down like stones,
Which slew their sons and daughters all,
Their wives and little ones.

'T was all about old Aaron's tithes
This murdering quarrel rose;
For tithes are worldly things of old,
That led from words to blows.

A Jew of Venice has explained,
In the language of his nation,
The manner how this fray began,
Of which here is translation:

There was a widow old and poor,
Who scarce herself could keep;
Her stock of goods was very small,
Her flock one single sheep.

And when her time of shearing came,
She counted much her gains;
For now, said she, I shall be blest
With plenty for my pains.

When Aaron heard the sheep was shear'd
And gave a good increase,
He straightway sent his tithing man
And took away the fleece

At this the weeping widow went
To Korah to complain,
And Korah he to Aaron went
In order to explain.

But Aaron said, in such a case,
There can be no forbearing,
The law ordains that thou shalt give
The first fleece of thy shearing.

When lambing time was come about,
This sheep became a dam,
And bless'd the widow's mournful heart,
By bringing forth a lamb.

When Aaron heard the sheep had young,
He staid till it was grown,
But then he sent his tithing man,
And took it for his own.

Again the weeping widow went
To Korah with her grief,
But Aaron said, in such a case
There could be no relief;

For in the holy law 't is writ,
That whilst thou keep'st the stock,
Thou shalt present unto the Lord
The firstling of thy flock.

The widow then, in deep distress,
And having naught to eat,
Against her will she killed the sheep,
To feed upon the meat.

When Aaron heard the sheep was killed
He sent and took a limb;
Which by the holy law, he said,
Pertained unto him;

For in the holy law 't is writ,
That when thou kill'st a beast,
Thou shalt a shoulder and a breast
Present unto the priest.

The widow then worn out with grief,
Sat down to mourn and weep;
And in a fit of passion said,
The devil take the sheep!

Then Aaron took the whole away,
And said, the laws record
That all and each devoted thing
Belongs unto the Lord.

The widow went among her kin,
The tribes of Israel rose,
And all the widows, young and old,
Pull'd Aaron by the nose.

But Aaron called an earthquake up,
And fire from out the sky;
And all the consolation is-
The Bible tells a lie.

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