Pleas'd with the sweetness of her song, Disgust was born, and Pleasure died. HOPE AND MEMORY, Occasioned by the sentiment, that Hope perishes with the present brief existence, but that Memory is immortal. [From the North American Review.] 1. SWEET friend of Man! whose airy form Is seen through every gathering storm, 2. Thou on his childish lip dost press Thy signet with a smile, And on through Nature's weariness His pilgrimage beguile. 3. When disappointments wake regret, Or dangers threaten loud, He scarce can shrink ere thou dost set N 4. He scarce can weep, ere thou art nigh To gild the falling tear; To snatch the half unutter'd sigh, 5. But chiefly, when the dying saint On his last couch reclines, When lights of earth are dim and faint, 6. Thy smile is glorious to his eye, Thy brow like seraph fair; Thou point'st his journey to the sky, But may'st not follow there. 7. Thy friendship soften'd mortal ill, 8. Well pleas'd wert thou to cheer the gloom, Beguile the short pursuit, And paint the future rich with bloom, Till man might reap the fruit. 9. But when his beating pulse declines, And when the real morning shines, 10. Yet one there is, who braves the blast, 11. She gilds no fairy scenes for youth, No flight with fancy takes; But in the holy cell of truth 12. She guards the key, with wary eye, Where knowledge hides her store; To conscience gives th' unfading dye, That glows when time is o'er. 13. The wise, the virtuous love to wait Within her sacred bow'r; The thoughtless shun, the fickle hate, The guilty dread her pow'r. N 2 14. When death's dark curtain veils the eyes, Resplendent glows her ray; And when the unrob'd spirit flies, She shares its unknown way. 15. Through the drear valley, hung with gloom, 16. She dauntless treads the troubled sphere And those who stain'd her record here, 17. If Mercy to a glorious land The accepted soul invite, She hovers round the perfect band, 18. And oft her tablet's varied trace Of mortal care and pain, From raptur'd angel harps shall raise The loudest, sweetest strain. AUTUMN. [From Allston's Sylphs of the Seasons.] AND now, in accents deep and low, Yet still may I in hope aspire Thy heart to touch with chaster fire, And purifying love; For I with vision high and holy, Thy soul from sublunary folly First rais'd to worlds above. What though be mine the treasures fair Of purple grape and yellow pear, And fruits of various hue; And harvests rich of golden grain, To merry song of reaping swain, |