SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, What charms in Genius, and refines in Art; Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp. The friends of Reason, and the guides of Youth, Whose language breathed the eloquence of Truth; Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct, and the pure in thought; These still exist, by Thee to Fame consigned,* Still speak and act, the models of mankind. From Thee sweet Hope her airy colouring draws; And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Still thro' the gloom thy star serenely glows: Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light. The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu, Oft of that world will snatch a fond review; Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace Some social scene, some dear, familiar face: And ere with iron-tongue, the vesper-bell The whispered vow, the chaste caress prolong, And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. But not till Time has calmed the ruffled breast, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, D But pause not then-beyond the western wave, Crushed till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resigned, Lo! MEMORY bursts the twilight of the mind: Her dear delusions sooth his sinking soul, When the rude scourge assumes its base controul; And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse The full reflection of her vivid hues. 'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, The oral tale of elder time rehearse, And chant the rude, traditionary verse With those, the loved companions of his youth, When life was luxury, and friendship truth. Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate? Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create! A little world of clear and cloudless day, Nor wrecked by storms, nor mouldered by decay; A world, with MEMORY'S ceaseless sun-shine blest, The home of Happiness, an honest breast. But most we mark the wonders of her reign, And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows, In that dead hour of night to Silence given, When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round |