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And weaves a song of melancholy joy :
“Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy:
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ;
No sigh, that rends thy father's heart and mine;
Bright as his manly sire the son shall be
In form and soul; but, ah! more bless'd than he !
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall sooth his aching heart for all the past;
With many a smile my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.
And say, when summond from the world and

I lay my head beneath the willow-tree,
Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And sooth my parted spirit lingering near ?
Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour to shed
The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind ;
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love and all my wo?"

So speaks Affection ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply ;
But when the cherub lip hath learn’d to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity or a smile of love,
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer,
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear-
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while
At every artless tear and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

In joyous youth, what soul hath never known Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?

Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye
Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh?
Who hath not own', with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name?

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow,
Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow!
There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd,
In self-adoring pride securely mail'd:
But triumph not, ye peace-enamour'd few!
Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!
For you no fancy consecrates the scene
Where Rapture utter'd vows, and wept between;
"Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet;
No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed,
The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead?
No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy,
And Fear and Sorrow fan the fire of Joy!
And say, without our hopes, without our fears,
Without the home that plighted love endears,
Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh! what were man? a world without a sun.

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower!
In vain the viewless seraph lingering there,
At starry midnight charm'd the silent air;
In vain the wild-bird caroll’d on the steep,
To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep;
In vain, to sooth the solitary shade,
Aërial notes in mingling measure play'd;
The summer wind, that shook the spangled tree,
The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;
Still slowly passid the melancholy day,
And still the stranger wist not where to stray.
The world was sad! the garden was a wild !
And man, the hermit, sigh'dŞtill woman smiled!

True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring Delirious anguish on his fiery wing;

Barrd from delight by Fate's untimely hand,
By wealthless lot or pitiless command;
Or doom'd to gaze on beauties that adorn
The smile of 'Triumph or the frown of Scorn;
While Memory watches o'er the sad review
Of joys that faded like the morning dew;
Peace may depart, and life and nature seem
A barren path, a wildness, and a dream!

But can the noble mind for ever brood,
The willing victim of a weary mood,
On heartless cares that squander life away,
And cloud young Genius brightening into day?
Shame to the coward thought that e'er betray'd
The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade!
If Hope's creative spirit cannot raise
One trophy sacred to thy future days,
Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine
Of hopeless love to murmur and repine !
But, should á sigh of milder mood express
Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness,
Should Heaven's fair harbinger delight to pour
Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour,
No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page,
No fears but such as fancy can assuage :
Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss
The peaceful tenour of unvaried bliss
(For love pursues an ever-devious race,
True to the winding lineaments of grace),
Yet still may Hope her talisman employ
To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy,
And all her kindred energies impart,
That burn the brightest in the purest heart.

When first the Rhodian's mimic art array'd The Queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, The happy master mingled on his piece Each look that charm'd him in the fair of Greece. To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace From every finer form and sweeter face;

And as he sojourn'd on the Ægean isles,
Wou'd all their love, and treasured all their smiles;
Then glow'd the tints, pure, precious, and refined,
And mortal charms seem'd heavenly when combined!
Love on the picture smiled! Expression pour'd
Her mingling spirit there, and Greece adored !

So thy fair hand, enamour'd Fancy! gleans
The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ;
Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought
Some cottage home, from towns and toil remote,
Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,
With Peace imbosom'd in Idalian bowers !
Remote from busy Life's bewilderd way,
O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway!
Free on the sunny slope or winding shore,
With hermit steps to wander and adore !
There shall he love, when genial morn appears,
Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,
To watch the brightening roses of the sky,
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye!
And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep,
The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep;
When fairy harps th' Hesperian planet hail,
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,
His path shall be where streamy mountains swell
Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell;
Where mouldering piles and forests intervene,
Mingling with darker tints the living green;
No circling hills his ravish'd eye to bound,
Heaven, Earth, and Ocean blazing all around.

The moon is up, the watch-tower dimly burns,
And down the vale his sober step returns ;
But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey
The still sweet fall of music far away ;
And oft he lingers from his home a while
To watch the dying notes! and start, and smile!

Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweep
The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep!

Though boundless snows the wither'd heath deform,
And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,
Yet shall the smile of social love repay
With mental light the melancholy day!
And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er,
The ice-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore,
How bright the fagots in his little hall
Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!

How bless'd he names, in Love's familiar tone,
The kind, fair friend, by nature mark'd his own;
And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,
Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,
Since Anna's empire o'er his heart began!
Since first he call'd her his before the holy man!

Above, below, in ocean, earth, and sky, Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, And Hope attends, companion of the way, Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day! In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere That gems the starry girdle of the year; In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, Pure from their God, created millions dwell, Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below, We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know; For, as Iona's saint, a giant form, Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm (When o’er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, The vesper-clock tolls mournful to the wind), Counts every wave-worn isle and mountain hoar, From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore; So, when thy pure and renovated mind This perishable dust hath left behind, Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, Like distant isles imbosom'd in the main; Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, And light and life in mingling torrent ran; From whence each bright rotundity was hurld, The throne of God! the centre of the world!

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