Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
  Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
  And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
  And baffles his pursuit—­thought-sick and tired
  Of controversy, where no end appears,
  No clue to his research, the lonely man
  Half wishes for society again. 
  Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute
  Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in
  The cheering music; his relenting soul
  Yearns after all the joys of social life,
  And softens with the love of human kind.

* * * * *

FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.

  The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
  A lone enthusiast maid.  She loves to walk
  In the bright visions of empyreal light,
  By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
  Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
  By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
  Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
  Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
  Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
  From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
  On mortal life, from sin and death forever.

* * * * *

COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.

  From broken visions of perturbed rest
  I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. 
  How total a privation of all sounds,
  Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,
  Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. 
  ’Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry
  Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise
  Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. 
  Those are the meanings of the dying man,
  Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans,
  And interrupted only by a cough
  Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. 
  So in the bitterness of death he lies,
  And waits in anguish for the morning’s light. 
  What can that do for him, or what restore? 
  Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices. 
  And little images of pleasures past,
  Of health, and active life—­health not yet slain,
  Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
  For sin’s black wages.  On his tedious bed
  He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light,
  And finds no comfort in the sun, but says
  “When night comes I shall get a little rest.” 
  Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end. 
  ’Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond;
  Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope,
  And Fancy, most licentious on such themes
  Where decent reverence well had kept her mute,
  Hath o’erstock’d hell with devils, and brought down
  By her enormous fablings and mad lies,
  Discredit on the gospel’s serious truths
  And salutary fears.  The man of parts,
  Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch
  Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates