To each soft note return as soft a sigh,

And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly.

But not till Time has calm'd the ruffled breast,

Are these fond dreams of happiness confest.

Not till the rushing winds forget to rave,

Is heav'n's sweet smile reflected on the wave.

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, And catch the sounds that sadden every gale.

Tell, if thou canst, the suin of sorrows there; Mark the fixt gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The racks of thought, and freezings of despair!

But pause not then-beyond the western wave,

Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave!

Crush'd till his high, heroic spirit bleeds,

And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes.

Yet here, ev'n here, with pleasures long resign'd,

Lo! MEMORY bursts the twilight of the mind:

Her dear delusions sooth his sinking soul,

When the rude scourge presumes 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,

Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore;

Beneath his plantain's antient shade, renew

The simple transports that with freedom flew;

Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows,.

And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows;

The oral tale of elder time rehearse,

And chant the rude, traditionary verse;

With those, the lov'd companions of his youth,

When life was luxury, and friendship truth.

Ah! why should Virtue dread the frowns of Fate?

Hers what no wealth can win, no power create!

A little world of clear and cloudless day,

Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd 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,

When Sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain.
When sober Judgment has his throne resign'd,
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 giv'n,
Whispering seraphic visions of her heav'n.

When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round

With humble wares and pipe of merry sound,

From his green vale and shelter'd 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 rock'd to sleep,
While his mule browses on the dizzy steep,

With MEMORY's aid, he sits at home, and sees

His children sport beneath their native trees,

And bends, to hear their cherub-voices call,

O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall.

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,

And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain?

Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies,

There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies!

He, whose arresting hand sublimely wrought

Each bold conception in the sphere of thought; And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw

Forms ever fair, creations ever new!

But, as he fondly snatch'd the wreath of Fame,

The spectre Poverty unnerv'd his frame.

Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore;

And Hope's soft energies were felt no more.
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art!*
From the rude wall what bright ideas start!
Ev'n now he claims the amaranthine wreath,
With scenes that glow, with images that breathe!
And whence these scenes, these images, declare.
Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair?