Gazette Of The United States

FOR THE GAZETTE OF THE UNITED STATES.

ODE TO CHARITY.

HAIL, Spirit of Heav'n, hail!

Well do I know thy seraph form,
Descending from the realms of light:
The soul-enlivening grace!
That well the torpid heart might warm,
Spread o'er thy lovely face:
Thine eye with sweet compassion bright;
Hail, Spirit of Heav'n, hail!

When first descended from the sacred throne,
The star of piety to walk the earth;
To clasp round purer hearts her blazing zone,
And warm the mind into a heav'nly birth:
Her daughter thou, where'er the spirit turn'd,
Gave thy sweet temper to the generous soul;
Whose breast with piety since then hath burn'd,
Feels god-like Charity pervade the whole.

Hail, Spirit of Heav'n, hail!

Warm'd by thy melting breath,
Benignant HOWARD sought the dreary jail,
To snatch the sufferer from the grasp of death.

Mov'd by thy impulse, where the ghastly crew,
E'er-gnawing famine, staring horror dwell,
And pestilence of ever-sick'ning hue,
Her fateful breath around her blew;
He smiling trod nor fear'd those fiends of hell.

When thy life-giving light
Beam'd thro' the big round tear
That started from his pitying eye!
The wretch whose hopeless sight,
Beheld 'till then, flash thro' the dungeon's night,
Nought save convulsed figures of despair;
Felt his heart beat with new-born joy:
Such his unutterable ecstasy,
As fill'd the soul of him whose eye,
'Till manhood's prime, was wrap'd with clouds around,
And now his sight first found,
Now first beheld the world, and the bright blazing wonders
of the sky!

Thou pour'd'st thy music from his tongue;
And as of old, when to the fiend of hell
Immortal Orpheus breath'd his melting song
The curs'd one's madness fell;
While fix'd in death-like silence all around,
Furies forgot their rage, and listen'd to the sound:
So when to tyrant Kings he spoke
The just complaint of subjects griev'd,
By laws which cruelty had form'd;
They felt their iron souls with pity warm'd,
Their frames, for once, with anguish shook;
They wish'd, they crav'd to be reliev'd
From scenes, which starting to their view,
Of tortur'd wretches pierc'd their bosoms through.

The list'ning Angels, leaning from the sky,
To hear him urge the melting tale,
Accordant breath'd a pitying sigh,
That flew to earth, borne on a heav'nly gale.
Sound high with one accord, they said,
The warbling flute, the sweeping lyre;
Let sacred fame to him be giv'n,
Who fill'd with Charity from Heav'n;
To raise a hopeless brother's head,
To stop the fountains of despair,
Explores the gloomy dungeon's shade,
Where death and famine stalk around
The wretch condemn'd to fetters on the ground,
And pierce him thro' with pains 'till tortur'd life expire.

Too great—too good to live below!
O! may he soon our high-born rapture know;
To Heav'n be call'd where from our Angel tongues
Celestial music falls, and varying flows in our melodious songs
Ah! soon—too soon for man the pray'r was heard!
God spake the final word;
The mortal saw the beck'ning hand,
And mounted into Heav'n at God's command.

Hail, Spirit of Heav'n, hail!
Tho' call'd from earth's deep night,
Into the boundless realms of living light,
The tenderest, noblest son!
O! bid thy power still prevail,
Still, still diffuse thy spirit o'er
The human soul, from where the sun
Burns in the East, to where he gilds the surge
That dashing foams along the western shore.

ULLIN