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Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam,
And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream.

Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky, And the lone seabird 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 homeEv'n 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, Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form, Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm! There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine! That generous wish can soothe unpitied care, And Hope half mingles with the poor

man's prayer.

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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 tygers, steal along,
And the dread Indian chants 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 wand'ring genius of the lonely glen
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men;
And silent watch, on woodland heights around,
The village curfew, as it tolls profound.

In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done,
That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun,
Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane,
Wild Obi flies (0)—the veil is rent in twain.

Where barb’rous hoards 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, (g) 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 eyes the fire of valour burns, And, as the slave departs, the man returns !

Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, 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! (h)

Warsaw's last champion, from her height surveyed, 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 Jread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live'-with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-neights 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 watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!

In vain, asas. in rain, 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 wo! Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career! Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked-as Kosciusko fell !

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight airOn Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murm’ring far below; The storm prevails, the ramparts yield away, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay; Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook-red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry!

Oh! Righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave Why slept thy sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O'Vengeance ! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God, That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast! 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,
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, unpitying 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 náme, her nature, withered from the world!

Ye that the rising moon 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 pow'rs of Man; Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallowed shrine, Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine :“ Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease; and here, Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career.”

Tyrants ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring; In 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 sceptered 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,

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