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Ah! no; she darkly sees the fate of man—
Her dim horizon bounded to a span;
Or, if she hold an image to the view,
'Tis nature pictured too severely true.
With thee, sweet hope, resides the heavenly light
That pours remotest rapture on the sight;
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way,
That calls each slumbering passion into play.
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band,
On tiptoe watching, start at thy command,
And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer,
To pleasure's path, or glory's bright career.

Primeval hope, the Aonian muses say,
When man and nature mourned their first decay;
When every form of death and every woe
Shot from malignant stars to earth below;
When murder bared her arm, and rampant war
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car;
When peace and mercy, banished from the plain,

Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again

All, all forsook the friendless guilty mind,
But Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind.

Thus while Elijah's burning wheels prepare
From Carmel's height to sweep the fields of air,
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began,
Dropt on the world—a sacred gift to man.

Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe: Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms the iEolian organ play, And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away!



There is an hour of peaceful rest,
To mourning wanderers given;
There is a tear for souls distrest,
A balm for every wounded breast—
'Tis found above—in heaven!

There is a soft, a downy bed,
Tis fair as breath of even;
A couch for weary mortals spread,
Where they may rest the aching head,
And find repose in heaven!

There is a home for weary souls,

By sin and sorrow driven;
When tost on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,
And all is drear—but heaven!

There faith lifts up the tearful eye,

The heart with anguish riven; And views the tempest passing by, The evening shadows quickly fly, And all serene in heaven!

There fragrant flowers immortal bloom,

And joys supreme are given:
There rays divine disperse the gloom:
Beyond the confines of the tomb,
Appears the dawn of heaven!



This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;

The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow;
There's nothing true but heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;
And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb;
There's nothing bright but heaven I

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven;
And fancy's flash, and reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way;
There's nothing calm but heaven!



Cold, cold lies the sod on a heart once as warm
As ever to earth was given; .'

And sadly and wild moans the winter storm
O'er as gentle a breast, and as lovely a form,
As ever seemed moulded for heaven.


As the dew that moistens the rose at dawn

Gives the violet many a tear;

So bright in the morning of life she shone,

That her fragrance still lives, while her spirit is gone,

Embalming her memory here.

As the summer sun, at the close of the day,
Bids adieu to the crimsoned went,
And sheds his loveliest richest ray
When his golden beams are melting away
Far, far on the ocean's breast :■—

So her viewless spirit, as soaring on high,
In pity to those who wept,
Gave a lingering look from its native sky,
And left such a trace in her dark blue eye,
That it seemed as an angel slept.

Oh! who ever gazed on a form so fair,

In the cold embrace of death?

The snowy brow and the raven hair,

And the smile that the lips was wont to wear,

Fled not with the parting breath!

There needs not the art of the senlptor to tell
The grave where ber relics lie;

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