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contemplative moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with an impression, that we shall some day have a wider and distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy.

The last and most sublime influence of Hope, is the concluding topic of the Poem. The predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution. The baneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts.:-Allusion to the fate of a Suicide.-Epi

sode of Conrad and Ellenore.-Conclusion.

PLEASURES OF HOPE.

PART II.

In joyous youth, what soul hath never known
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?
Who hath not paus'd, while Beauty's pensive eye
Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh?
Who hath not own’d, with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name?

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow,

There be, whose loveless wisdom never faild,
In reliadoring pride securely mail d;-
But, triomph not, ye peace enamour'd few!
Fire, Vature, Genius, neter dwelt with you!
For you no fancy consecrates the scene
Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between;
"Tis yours, unmov’d, to sever and to meet;
No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead? No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy! And say, without our hopes, without our fears, Without the home that plighted love endears,

Without the smile from partial beauty won,
O! what were man?–a world without a sun!

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bow'r!
In vain the viewless Seraph ling’ring there,
At starry midnight, charm’d the silent air;
In vain the wild-bird carold on the steep,
To hail the sun, slow-wheeling from the deep;
In vain, to soothe the solitary shade,
Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd;
The summer wind that shook the spangled tree,
The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;-
Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day,
And still the stranger wist not where to stray,–

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The world was sad!—the garden was a wild !
And Man, the hermit, sigh’d—till Woman smild!

True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring Delirious anguish on his fiery wing! Barr’d from delight by Fate's untimely hand, By wealthless lot, or pitiless command; Or doom’d to gaze on beauties that adorn The smile of triumph, or the frown of scorn; While Memory watches o’er the sad review Of joys that faded like the morning dew; Peace may depart—and life and nature seem A barren path—a wildness, and a dream!

But, can the noble mind for ever brood, The willing victim of a weary mood,

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