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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 soothe this aching heart for all the past....
With many a smile my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

"And say, when summon'd from the world and thee,

I lay my head beneath the willow tree;

Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And soothe my parted spirit ling'ring near?
Oh, wilt thou come, at ev'ning hour, to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclin'd,
Muse on the last farewel I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,

And think on all my love, and all my woe?"
So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply;
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name;

Soon as the playful innocent can prove

A tear of pity, or a smile of love,

Or cons his murm'ring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy looks his ev'ning prayer,
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear

}

The mournful ballad warbled in his ear;
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while,
At every artless tear, and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent to descry

A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

Where is the troubled heart consign'd to share Tumultuous toils, or solitary care,

Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray

To count the joys of Fortune's better day!
Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume
The dim-ey'd tenant of the dungeon gloom,
A long lost friend, or hapless child restor❜d,
Smile at his blazing hearth and social board:
Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow,
And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe.、

Chide not his peace, proud Reason! nor destroy
The shadowy forms of uncreated joy,
That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour

Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour.

Hark! the wild maniac sings to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail;

She, sad spectatress, on the wint'ry shore

Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore,
Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze,
Clasp❜d her cold hands, and fix'd her madd'ning gaze:
Poor widow'd wretch! 'twas there she wept in vain
Till Memory fled her agonizing brain ;....
But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe,
Ideal peace, that Truth could ne'er bestow :....!
Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam,
And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream.

Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky,
And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,
Pil'd on the steep her blazing faggots burn
To hail the bark that never can return;
And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep
That constant love can linger on the deep.

And mark the wretch, whose wand'rings never knew The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it err'd no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye

Th' unfeeling proud one looks....and passes by;

Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam,
Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home....
Ev'n he, at evening should he chance to stray
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way,
Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen
The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green,
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while....
Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm;
There should my hand no stinted boon assign
To wretched hearts with sorrows such as mine ;....
That generous wish can soothe unpitied care,
And Hope half mingles with the poor man's prayer.
Hope! when I mourn, with sympathising mind,
The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind,
Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see
The boundless fields of rapture yet to be;
I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan,

And learn the future by the past of man.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime: Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore.

On Erie's banks, where tygers steal along,
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song,
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,
And bathe in brains the murd'rous tomahawk;
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray,
And shepherds dance at Summer's op'ning day;
Each wand'ring genius of the lonely glen

Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men;
And silent watch, on woodland heights around,
The village curfew, as it tolls profound.

In Lybian groves, where damned rites are done,
That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun,
Truth shall arrest the murd'rous arm profane,
Wild Obi flies 7....the veil is rent in twain.

Where barb'rous hordes on Scythian mountains

roam,

Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;
Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,
From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines,
Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there,
And light the dreadful features of despair:
Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,
And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd!

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