Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hour, Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power; To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields, When front to front the banner'd hosts combine, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil; As rings his glitt❜ring tube, he lifts on high The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye; Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, And hears thy stormy music in the drum!

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore
The hardy Byron to his native shore- 1
In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests weep
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep,
'Twas his to mourn misfortune's rudest shock,
Scourg❜d by the winds, and cradled on the rock;
To wake each joyless morn, and search again
The famish'd haunts of solitary men,

Whose race, unyielding as their native storm,
Knows not a trace of Nature but the form;
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued,
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued,
Pierc'd the deep woods, and, hailing from afar
The moon's pale planet and the northern star,
Paus'd at each dreary cry, unheard before,
Hyænas in the wild, and Mermaids on the shore ;
Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime,
He found a warmer world, a milder clime,
A home to rest, a shelter to defend,
Peace and repose; a Briton and a friend!

Congenial Hope! thy passion-kindling power How bright, how strong in youth's untroubled hour!

On yon proud height, with genius hand in hand,
I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand!
"Go, Child of Heaven! (thy winged words
proclaim)

'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame!
Lo! Newton, Priest of Nature, shines afar!
Scans the wide world, and numbers ev'ry star!
Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply,
And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye!
Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound,
The speed of light, the circling march of sound;
With Franklin grasp the lightning's fiery wing,
Or yield the lyre of Heav'n another string. 3

"The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bow'rs, +
His winged insects, and his rosy flow'rs;
Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train
With sounding horn, and counts them on the plain-
So once, at Heav'n's command, the wand'rers came
To Eden's shade, and heard their various name.

"Far from the world, in yon sequester'd clime, Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime; Calm as the fields of Heav'n, his sapient eye The lov'd Athenian lifts to realms on high; Admiring Plato on his spotless page, Stamps the bright dictates of the Father Sage• Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man!"

Turn, Child of Heav'n, thy rapture-lighten'd eye To Wisdom's walks; the sacred Nine are nigh!

E

Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian From streams that wander in eternal light, [height, Rang'd on their hill, Harmonia's daughters swell The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell! Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow, And Pythia's awful organ peals below!

"Belov'd of Heav'n! the smiling muse shall shed Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head! Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfin'd, And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind! I see thee roam her guardian pow'r beneath, And talk with spirits on the midnight heath; Inquire of guilty wand'rers whence they came, And ask each blood-stain'd form his earthly name; Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, And read the trembling world the tales of hell. "When Venus, thron'd in clouds of rosy hue, Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, And bids fond man her glimm'ring noon employ, Sacred to love and walks of tender joy, A milder mood the Goddess shall recall, And soft as dew thy tones of music fall; While Beauty's deeply pictur'd smiles impart A pang more dear than pleasure to the heartWarm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain.

Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem, And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream; To pensive drops the radiant eye beguileFor Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smileOn Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, And teach impassion'd souls the Joy of Grief!

"Yes! to thy tongue shall seraph words be giv❜n, And pow'r on earth to plead the cause of Heav'n; The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, That never mus'd on sorrow but its own, Unlocks a gen'rous store at thy command, Like Horeb's rocks beneath the Prophet's hand." The living lumber of his kindred earth, Charm'd into soul, receives a second birth; Feels thy dread pow'r another heart afford, Whose passion-touch'd harmonious strings accord True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan; And man, the brother, lives the friend of man! Bright as the pillar rose at Heav'n's command, When Israel march'd along the desert land, Blaz'd through the night on lonely wilds afar, And told the path-a never-setting star, So, heav'nly Genius! in thy course divine, Hope is thy star, her light is ever thine."

Propitious Pow'r! when rankling cares annoy The sacred home of Hymenean joy; When, doom'd to Poverty's sequester'd dell, The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same Oh! there, prophetic Hope! thy smile bestow, And chase the pangs that worth should never know!— There, as the parent deals his scanty store To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage Their father's wrongs, and shield his later age! What though for him no Hybla sweets distill, Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill,

Tell, that when silent years have pass'd away,
That when his eyes grow dim, his tresses gray,
These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build,
And deck with fairer flow'rs his little field,
And call from Heav'n propitious dews to breathe
Arcadian beauty on the barren heath;

Tell, that while Love's spontaneous smile endears
The days of peace, the sabbath of his years,
Health shall prolong to many a festive hour
The social pleasures of his humble bow'r.

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumb'ring child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy

Sleep, image of thy father; sleep, my boy: No ling'ring 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 blest than he! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall sooth this aching heart for all the past— With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungen'rous scorn away. "And say, when summon'd from the world and I lay my head beneath the willow tree, [thee, Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, And sooth my parted spirit ling'ring near! Oh! wilt thou come, at ev'ning hour, to shed The tears of Mem'ry o'er my narrow bed; With aching temples on thy hand reclin'd, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind;