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, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. When the rude scourge assumes its base control; The full reflection of her vivid hues. 'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows, And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows; And chant the rude, traditionary verse Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate? Nor wrecked by storms, nor mouldered by decay; A world, with MEMORY'S ceaseless sunshine blest, The home of Happiness, an honest breast. 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, But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell? And mould the coinage of the fevered brain? Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies, There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies! Each bold conception in the sphere of thought; But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of Fame, Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art! Awake, arise! with grateful fervour fraught, Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. He, who, thro' Nature's various walk, surveys The good and fair her faultless line pourtrays; Whose mind, profaned by no unhallowed guest, Culls from the crowd the purest and the best ; May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime, Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime, Or wake the Spirit of departed Time. Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, A blooming Eden in his life reviews! So rich the culture, tho' so small the space, Its scanty limits he forgets to trace. But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky, |