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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 robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene
More pleasing seems than all the past hath
been;

And every form, that Fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.
What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
To pierce the shades of dim futurity?
Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly

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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:
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive
soul,

He found a warmer world, a milder clime,
A home to rest, a shelter to defend,
Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend!
Congenial HOPE! thy passion-kindling power,
How bright, how strong, in youth's un-
troubled hour!

On yon proud height, with Genius hand in
hand,

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-blossomed I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand.
"Go, child of Heaven! (thy winged words

vale,

Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the
wind,

Treads the loved shore he sighed 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,

proclaim)

'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of
fame!

Lo! Newton, priest of nature, shines afar,
Scans the wide world and numbers ev'ry star!
Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply,
And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming
eye?

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
line.

When all is still on Death's devoted soil,
The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil;
As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high
The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye,
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come,
And hears thy stormy music in the drum!
And such thy strength-inspiring aid that
bore

The hardy Byron to his native shore-
In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests
sweep

Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. "The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bowers,

His winged insects, and his rosy flowers;
Calls from their woodland-haunts the savage
train

With sounding horn, and counts them on
the plain-
So once, at Heaven's command, the wanderers

came

To Eden's shade, and heard their various

name.

"Far from the world, in yon sequestered
clime,

Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime;
Calm as the fields of Heaven, his sapient eye
The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high,
Admiring Plato, on his spotless page,
Stamps the bright dictates of the Father
sage:
Shall Nature bound to Earth's diurnal span
The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man?
"Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-light-
en'd eye

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
rock,
To wake each joyless morn, and search again
The famished haunts of solitary men ;
Whose race, unyielding as their native
storm,

Know not a trace of Nature but the form;
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued,
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued,
Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar,
The moon's pale planet, and the northern
star;

Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before,
Hyænas in the wild, and mermaids on the
shore;

nigh:

Hark! from bright spires that gild the
Delphian height.
From streams that wander in eternal light,
Ranged on their hill, Harmonia's daughters
swell

The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and
shell;
Deep from his vaults, the Loxian murmurs
flow,

And Pythia's awful organ peals below.
"Beloved of Heaven! the smiling Muse shall

shed

Her moonlight-halo on thy beauteous head;
Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined,
And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind.

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 milder mood the goddess shall recall,
And soft as dew thy tones of music fall;
While beauty's deeply-pictured smiles im-
part

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,

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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

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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!
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past-
With many a smile my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.
And say, when summoned 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 lingering near?
Oh, wilt thou come, at evening-hour to shed
The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last farewell 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 murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy look his evening-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, consigned to | There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine!

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-eyed tenant of the dungeon-gloom,
A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored,
Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board;
Warm from his heart the tears of rapture
flow,

And virtue triumphs o'er remembered 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 wintry shore
Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse
that bore,

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,
And HOPE half mingles with the poor man's
prayer.
HOPE! when I mourn, with sympathizing
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 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;-
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. The village-curfew as it tolls profound.
Oft when yon moon has climbed the mid-In Lybian groves, where damned rites are

night-sky,

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,
Piled 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 wanderings
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 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
smile,
yield my sickly form
and shelter in the
storm!

Some hamlet shade, to
Health in the breeze,

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,
And heaved an ocean on their march below?
Departed spirits of the mighty dead!
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!
Friends of the world! restore your swords
to man,

Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-
Oh! Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country
save!-

Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely

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,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!-
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder
flew :-

Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shat-
tered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high

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,
And Freedom shriek'd-as KOSCIUSKO fell!
The sun went down, nor ceased the car-
nage there,
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight-In
air-

On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin
glow,

His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a

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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,
belied?
Why then hath Plato lived-or Sidney died?—
Ye fond adorers of departed fame,
Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's

name!

Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire
The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre!
Wrapt in historic ardour, who adore
Each classic haunt, and well-remembered
shore,

Where Valour tuned,amid her chosen throng,
The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song ;
Or, wandering thence, behold the later
charms

Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms!

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