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Enquire of guilty wand'rers whence they came,

And ask each blood-stain'd 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 huc,

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;

While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart,

A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart

Warm 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;

To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile

For 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.

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 desert land,

Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar,

And told the path-a néver-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,

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Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame,

Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same

Oh there, prophetic HOPE! thy smile bestow,

And chase the pangs that worth should never know

There, as the parent deals his scanty store

To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more,

Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage

Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age.

What though for him no Hybla sweets distil,

Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill ;

Tell, that when silent years have pass’d away,

That when his eyes grow dim, his tresses grey,

These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build,

And deck with fairer flowers his little field,

And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe

Arcadian beauty on the barren heath;

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