These still exist, by Thee to Fame consigned, When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, 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 through 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 catch the sounds that sadden every gale. Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; Mark the fixed gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The racks of thought, the freezings of despair! But pause not then-beyond the western wave, Go, see the captive bartered as a slave! Crushed till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resigned, Lo! MEMORY bursts the twilight of the mind. Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul, When the rude scourge assumes its base control; 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, And chant the rude traditionary verse With those, the loved companions of his youth, Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate? But most we mark the wonders of her reign, She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend! 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 fevered brain? Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies, There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies! He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought Each bold conception in the sphere of thought; And round, in colors of the rainbow, threw But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of fame, Awake, arise! with grateful fervor fraught, Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. He, who, through Nature's various walk, surveys The good and fair her faultless line portrays; 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! |