Enquire of guilty wand'rers whence they came, "When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ, Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy; A milder mood the goddess shall recal, And soft as dew thy tones of music fall; "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 smile ;On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, And teach impassion'd souls the joy of grief? "Yes; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given, And pow'r on earth to plead the cause of Heaven; The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, That never mused on sorrow but its own, Unlocks a generous store at thy command, Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. f The living lumber of his kindred earth, Charm'd into soul, receives a second birth; Feels thy dread power 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 Heaven's command, When Israel march'd along the desart land, And told the path—a never-setting star : So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, HOPE is thy star, her light is ever thine." Propitious Power! 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, B Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same Oh there, prophetic HOPE! thy smile bestow, To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, And deck with fairer flowers his little field, And call from Heaven 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 bower. 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 slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy "Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy: No lingering 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 ! |