They in their glorious course 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 gay Hope her airy colouring draws ;. And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, 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 Bursts thro' the cypress-walk, the convent-cell, Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, To love and joy still tremblingly alive; The whispered vow, the chaste caress prolong, Weave the light dance and swell the choral song; With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade, To each soft note return as soft a sigh, And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. But not till Time has calmed the ruffled breast, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. The full reflection of her vivid hues. 'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, } The oral tale of elder time rehearse, With those, the loved companions of his youth, Ah, why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate ? But most we mark the wonders of her reign, When Sleep has locked the senses in her chain. When sober Judgment has his throne resigned, She smiles away the chaos of the mind; And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows, From Her each image springs, each colour flows. She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend! Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend, In that dead hour of night to Silence given, Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven. When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, From his green vale and sheltered cabin hies, And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies ; Tho' far below the forked lightnings play, And at his feet the thunder dies away, Oft, in the saddle rudely rocked to sleep, While his mule browses on the dizzy steep, With MEMORY's aid, he sits at home, and sees But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell? Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell ? Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain, Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies, But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of Fame, Awake, arise! with grateful fervour fraught, Whose mind, profaned by no unhallowed guest, But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky, } Ah! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, By truth illumined and by taste refined? When age has quenched the eye and closed the ear, Still nerved for action in her native sphere, Oft will she rise-with searching glance pursue Some long-loved image vanished from her view; Dart thro' the deep recesses of the Past, O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast; With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night, And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. So thro' the grove the impatient mother flies, Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries; Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, Long on the wood-moss stretched in sweet repose. Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. |