THOMAS CAMPBELL. PLEASURES OF HOP E. PART I Ar summer-eve, when Heaven's aerial bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And every form, that Fancy can repair Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summerbower; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid-spirits bring! What viewless forms th' Aeolian organ play, And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away! Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore. Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark careering o'er unfathomed fields; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor-standard to the winds unfurled, 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 wave's tumultuous roar, The wolf's long howl from Onalaska's shore. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay; Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But HOPE can here her moonlight-vigils | Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime, keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep: He found a warmer world, a milder clime, On yon proud height, with Genius hand in His native hills that rise in happier climes, vale, Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave proclaim) 'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of Lo! Newton, priest of nature, shines afar, And clasps, with many a sigh, his children Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art dear! sound; With Franklin grasp the lightning's fiery wing, profound, While, long neglected, but at length caressed, The speed of light, the circling march of His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam) His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. 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-covered fields, When front to front the bannered hosts combine, Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful When all is still on Death's devoted soil, The hardy Byron to his native shore- Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. "The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bowers, His winged insects, and his rosy flowers; With sounding horn, and counts them on came To Eden's shade, and heard their various name. "Far from the world, in yon sequestered Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime; Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 'Twas his to mourn misfortune's rudest To Wisdom's walks, the sacred Nine are shock, Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the Know not a trace of Nature but the form; Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, nigh: Hark! from bright spires that gild the The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and And Pythia's awful organ peals below. shed Her moonlight-halo on thy beauteous head; I see thee roam her guardian power beneath, And talk with spirits on the midnight heath; Enquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, And ask each blood-stained form his earthly name; Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, And read the trembling world the tales of hell. "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 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; Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile-She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, For beauty's tears are lovelier than her Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive smile ;On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief? "Yes; to thy tongue shall seraph-words be given, And power 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 eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy- Bright as his manly sire the son shall be I lay my head beneath the willow-tree, appear, And soothe my parted spirit lingering near? And think on all my love, and all my woe?" Where is the troubled heart, consigned to | There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine! share Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, And virtue triumphs o'er remembered woe. Chide not his peace, proud Reason! nor destroy The shadowy forms of uncreated joy, That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail; Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze: Poor widowed wretch! 'twas there she wept in vain, That generous wish can soothe unpitied care, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, 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 tigers steal along, And the dread Indian chaunts a dismal song, Where human fiends on midnight-errands walk, And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk; There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day; Each wandering Genius of the lonely glen Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men, And Silence watch, on woodland-heights Till memory fled her agonizing brain;- night-sky, And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it erred no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye Th' unfeeling proud one looks—and passes by; | Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam, Scorned by the world, and left without a home Even 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 blossomed 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 Some hamlet shade, to around, done, That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, Truth shall arrest the murderous armprofane, Wild Obi flies-the veil is rent in twain. Where barbarous 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' unfathomed darkness there, And light the dreadful features of despair.— Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed! Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns, And, as the slave departs, the man returns. Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And HOPE, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile; When leagued Oppression poured to northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet-horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man! surveyed, Warsaw's last champion from her height | Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,- Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high! And swear for her to live! with her to die! He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,-the watch-word and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, career;— Fight in his sacred cause and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to freedom's cause return The patriot TELL-the BRUCE OF BANNOCKBURN! Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land! shall see That man hath yet a soul-and dare be free! A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven! Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world! Ye that the rising morn invidious mark, And hate the light-because your deeds are dark; Ye that expanding truth invidious view, And think, or wish, the song of HOPE untrue; Perhaps your little hands presume to span The march of Genius, and the powers of man; Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd shrine, Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine:— "Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career.' HOPE, for a season, bade the world farewell, On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; Tyrants! in vain ye trace the wizard-ring; vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring: What! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep? No:-the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand: It rolled not back when Canute gave command! Man! can thy doom no brighter soul allow? Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow? Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furled? Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world? What are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, name! Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire Where Valour tuned,amid her chosen throng, Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms! |