Within thy radiant light to steep my lyre;
To see thy dazzling wheels career along,
And to their awful music tune its wire;

For first thy beams-drunk in while gazing long-
Called from this marble heart its Memnon voice of song.

My flight may be preposterous and vain-
The fate of Icarus may be my doom;
And e'er I rise above this low terrene,

Languid and shrivelled be my daring plume,
And earth may laugh that I should so presume;
My soul perceives all this, but now thy beam
Doth all her panting energies illume,

And this provokes her to th' illustrious theme,
Ev'n now she springs away;-thou Sun art all her aim!

Unhand me, Earth! lay not thy gelid finger
Upon a soul that burns for regions higher,
'Tis Death within thy frigid bounds to linger
While full before me is that orb of fire,
Intensely glowing on Creation's spire:-
Oh joy! thy fetters now are snapped asunder,
And the full music of the heavenly choir,

Sweet as a cherub's voice and loud as thunder,

Wakes every dormant power to range those plains of wonder.

What art thou, Sun? Oh! that a voice were thine,

To answer my high cravings; if that sound

Be Fire, oh! let its glow divine

This moment thrill me with electric bound?
Oh speak! Nor will that voice sublime astound
The soul expanded by a world's divorce,-

The soul, contemning meaner glories round,
That pants, that swells, to urge its dizzy course
Through yonder blazing streets, to beauty's native source.

Thou art the grandeur of the universe,

Of all things visible, the brightest, best,

And throned majestically dost rehearse
Peans of light to Him, whose finger prest
That brilliantness, most matchless on thy vest;

And oh thy song is exquisitely sweet,

Nor sweeter than sublime-for all the breast Of Nature doth delicious transport beat,

And seems in loveliness to spring its lord, its life to meet.

Wrapt in the magic of this holy spell,

In fancy's glow my soul inspired hears,

Great golden harp of Heaven! those numbers swell,
Whose awful harmony attunes the spheres,
As each along its burning path careers;
I hear the tremblings of that song sublime

Pealed forth melodious through uncounted years, While echo, lightning-winged, conveys the chime, To ring its sweetness forth in many a starry clime.

Thou art above my most adventurous thought,
A hieroglyphic of th' Almighty God!
Thy surface like a burning mirror wrought,
Sends the bright image of his face abroad,
Through gorgeous plains by fancy's step untrod
Thou shin'st an emblem of his nameless might,
Who teachest worlds to tremble at his nod;
Learn what HE is, who with thy colors bright
Wrote his own glorious name-and that is Light.

Now I have gained thy summit, and mine eye
O'erlooks a vast empyreal wilderness,—
Isles filled with immortality float by,

And glittering millions in the distance press; 'Tis all one boundless range of loveliness; Yonder thy planetary minions roll,

And in the sparkling mass, I well can guess, Are countless orbs that know not thy control, Of tributary worlds themselves, the living soul.

Here the rapt muse of Jesse's sainted son
Might clap in ecstacy her cherub wing;
And there, high seated on his pearly throne,
Amid the throngs around the awful King,
The sweetest of the sweet is heard to sing;-

His eye

this wond'rous theatre surveys,

And through the chrystal halls his lyre doth ring,

Peals of devotion to Jehovah's praise,

Who in the void immense hath kindled such a blaze.

Newton magician of this dizzy spot!

From this high stand I hail thy giant soul; Which here ensphered didst fix her vent'rous foot, Then sprang away, away, to grasp the whole

Domain of congregated orbs that roll

In majesty magnificent along:

To stretch her greedy arms from pole to pole, To make them meet around the countless throng

Of comets, suns and moons, that to these fields belong.

Oh, come up here, Immortal, from that den

Where now thy heaven-born spirit is confined;-
Here is a stand above the strifes of men;

Here, where no frost can chill, no fetters bind,
In uncontrolled enfranchisement of mind,
Can we unite our burning hearts in one;
Forget the treachery of human kind,

And from this radiant, beauteous, godlike Sun,

Start off through boundless space our happy course to run.

Great brilliant sparkling in Creation's breast!

Thou art the admiration of all eyes—

From thee the richest thoughts in words exprest
Derive their sovereign magic to surprise:
All the great Genii of the earth arise,

To drink in inspiration from thy ray;

Thy fount the pure Castalian dew supplies;

"Tis thy soft breath inspires the rapturous lay,

Fills Tully's breath with fire, and gives his words their sway.

Thou splendid Sultan of prodigious power!

I ken thy glory from thy princely train;
Obsequious at thy beck, like slaves to cower,
Worlds bounding with high majesty are seen;
Sublime o'er all, thy royal head doth tower,
Thy empire is o'er empires;--thrones are piled
Upon thy footstool-where sceptred kings devour
Each other, and battling ranks are filed

To lick the dust, that tracks thy meanest servile child.

No more in temples, such as ruinous now
In Balbec or in proud Palmyra rise,

Immortal spirits worship thee, and bow

Before thee as their God; no more the cries

Of human victims, pierced in sacrifice

As homage to thy power, for vengeance call;
Satanic rites no more insult the skies:-

Apollo, Hercules, Osiris, Baal,

Have seen before the cross their blood-stained altars fall

Years far remote saw our forefathers raise
And dedicate unchiseled piles to thee:
The ancient hills have echoed to thy praise
'Mid rites involved in awful mystery,

And there the traveller trembles as his eye
Marks the huge Cromlech once with gore besmeared;
And fancy to his shudd'ring view brings nigh

The hoary Druid with his knife upreared,

A moment, and the victim bleeds, his dying groans are heard.

But so no more; the lands that once were cursed
By superstition's reign of moral gloom,
Have seen at length their fitful state reversed:

Glad tidings to their cheerless shores have come,
And beams of light and truth their minds illume;
The Sun of Righteousness appears; the soul
A mien of deathless dignity assumes,

And millions hail his beam, and onward roll

The glorious sound, "he comes," from Gambia to the pole.

Now I have gazed upon thee, Sun, until my brain
Is dizzy with the overwhelming theme,

And I can dwell no longer on a strain,

Where languid is conception's richest dream-
Where nameless images in torrents stream.
I was but sporting with thee, Fount of Light!
Father of Motion! Source of Beauty's beam!
Thy name is excellent, commanding, bright,
And I can see no more, confounded is my sight.

Great self-existent, world-controlling GOD!

To whom the dazzling Sun is but a blot;
Long as his lamp shall fling a ray abroad.
Thy endless glories shall not be forgot;
Oh! when his majesty hath sunk to nought,
Great Sun of Suns! ten thousand lyres shall tell
Thy praise in anthems of sublimest thought.
Dawn, Morn of Bliss! sink Sun! I burn, I swell,
To grasp the highest good, and Light Ineffable.

THE CRUISE OF THE ENTERPRIZE.

A DAY WITH LA FITTE.

We were running down in the latitude of Galveston bay; as it was laid down on our charts-to which place our brig had been ordered by Commodore Patterson. This was in the year of our Lord, 1819, and our particular errand was to ascertain what progress had been made in carrying into effect certain engagements entered into by the redoubtable Captain La Fitte with the United States. This noted leader, whose character and exploits have furnished matter for so much romance, had, after evacuating Barataria, established a sort of rendezvous at Galveston; where he had, it was reported, a fort and flotilla, and, as his neighborhood was not accounted a very desirable location for any god-fearing, money-saving people, certain arrangements, a detail of which is unimportant here, had resulted in a promise on La Fitte's part to betake himself to some other haunt.

Fancy us then, one fine morning, all on deck, enjoying the glorious breeze before which our tight little vessel bowled along, every inch of canvass drawing like a double team of elephants. The hands have been piped to breakfast a few youngsters are idling on deck, and our skipper Capt. Larry Kearny, hailing the lubber who has been sent aloft to clear the pennant, with an affectionate request that he would quicken his motions. 'Tis a pretty picture is'nt it? and he who "has sailed upon the dark blue sea," as Byron has it, may sail many a league without seeing a gallanter sight, than the little Enterprize with all her kites out.

And now step below and take a peep into the officers' berth. That good natured looking stout gentleman who is engaged in a very dingy looking volume with half a back is our doctor. One of the lieutenants is apparently with the aid of a guitar and music book, elevated against two forks stuck into the table, persuading himself that he is executing an accompainment to "O pescator," which at the same time he whistles with great gravity and perseverance. Two others are playing chess, while one of them is trying to aid his powers of combination with a sort of sotto voce recitative, of which we can catch something like this:

"In Barataria Bay,

We served with bold La Fitte,
How we did earn our pay,
Who cares' the devil a bit.

'Stop that, Toby, you put me out," said the musician with the guitar. "Put you out!-well I like that. Why! you dont mean to insinuate that you are really getting a tune out of that unfortunate banjo. Poor VOL. VI. NO. XIX.-JULY, 1839.

C