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PLEASURES OF HOPE,
AT summer eve, when Heav'n's aerial bow
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.'
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promis'd joys of life's unmeasur'd way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discover'd scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been;
And every form, that Fancy can repair
What potent spirit guides the raptur'd eye
With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heav'nly light,
Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say, When Man and Nature mourn’d their first decay ; When every form of death, and every woe, Shot from malignant stars to earth below; When Murder bar'd his arm, and rampant War Yok'd the red dragons of her iron car;
When Peace and Mercy, banish'd from the plain,
Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare,
Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe: Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; There, as the wild-bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring ! What viewless forms th' Æolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of thought away!
Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore. Lo! to the wint'ry winds the pilot yields His bark careering o'er unfathom'd fields; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor standard to the winds unfurl'd, Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world. Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles, On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles; Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, From wastes that slumber in eternal snow; And waft, across the waves' tumultuous roar, The wolf's long howl from Oonalashka's shore.
Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.
But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep: Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul. His native hills that rise in happier climes, The grot that heard his song of other times, His cottage-home, his bark of slender sail; His glassy lake, and broomwood blossom’d vale, Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind, Treads the lov'd shore he sigh'd to leave behind; Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ; Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear, And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!
While, long neglected, but at length caressid,
Friend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour,
And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron to his native shore.... 1 In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep 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,