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The pair were servants of his eye
Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance:
Alas! the fervent harper did not know
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1777.
THE PLEASURES OF HOPE." At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? Why do those
cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discover'd scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been; And every form that Fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.
What potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity? Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour?
Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man,
Primeval Hope, the Aönian muses say,
Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air, The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Droppd on the world—a sacred gift to man.
Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every wo; Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The wayworn pilgrim seeks thy summer bow'r; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms th’ Æolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought
Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and ocean's wildest shore.
Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields
Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep: Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul; His native hills, that rise in happier climes, The grot, that heard his song of other times, His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom’d vale, Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind, Treads the loved shore he sigh'd to leave behind; Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ; Wipes from her cheek the rapture speaking tear, And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear! While, long neglected, but at length caress'd, His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest; Points to the master's eyes, where'er they roam, His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.
Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid virtue looks to thee for power;
To thee the heart its trembling homage yields,
Propitious power! when rankling cares annoy The sacred home of Hymenean joy; When doom'd to poverty's sequester'd dell, The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, 'Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same; Oh, there, prophetic Hope! thy smile bestow, And chase the pangs that worth should never know; There, as the parent deals his scanty store To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, Tell that his manly race shall yet assuage Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age. What though for him no Hybla sweets distil, Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill ; Tell that, when silent years have pass'd away, That when his eyes grow dim, his tresses gray, These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, And deck with fairer flowers his little field, And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe Arcadian beauty on the barren heath; Tell that, while Love's spontaneous smile endears The days of peace, the sabbath of his years, Health shall prolong to many a festive hour The social pleasures of his humble bower.
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes,