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ODE TO HOPE.

COME, sweet Enchantress, come!

Dress'd in soft visions gay,With gentle look and seraph smile, Thou canst severest grief beguile, And charm e'en doubt away:.

My mind serene,

Shall bless the scene, Nor own its joys are raised by Fancy's Fairy Queen.

Come, cheerful Hope, again-
Oh! bless thy votary's prayer

!
O’er dark futurity thy mantle throw,
Make ev'ry scene with brighter colours glow,
And fling behind each care;-

With Hope my guest,

How truly blest,
And rich in flatt'ring visions feels my breast !

I e'en will love thee still

Though oft the glowing veil delusive proves, , So finely wrought by thy soft magic wand, Which steals, or seems to steal, from sorrow's hand, And from our view each dreaded ill removes.

Oh! to me yield,

Thy wond'rous shield,
Sweet Hope ! thine armour ever may I wield !

And will this pass away!

?-
Is hope then merely Fancy's child !
Ah no! for her soft angel smile
Can charm Despair, can Woe beguile,
And soothe the raging Passions wild !

Her form benign

Shall be my shrine,
Yes, lovely Hope! my ev'ry vow is thine !

Ah! what has Life to give !

Misfortune's hand oft breaks the thread
That binds us to its transient joys,
Its power our short-lived bliss destroys,
And sorrows deep the mind o'erspread ;-

Still Hope would fain

The heart regain,
And sure the effort is not made in vain.

а

Though oft the tearful eye

Shews Disappointment cradled in the breast, The humble look, with resignation fill'd, Displays a heart with grateful fervour thrillid, Where Hope's sweet balm has sorrow sooth'd to rest;

Hope, which nor clime

Can bind, nor time,
Till soaring high it rests in heav'nly joys sublime !

FROM THE PERSIAN OF NIZAMI.

Though grief and rudest pain assail,

Still hope, through dark misfortune's hour; From yon black clouds that low'ring sail,

May fall the lucid crystal shower.

L

TO THE BRITISH SHIPWRIGHTS.

A MASONIC SONG.

The Briton's best dock is the ocean at large,
His music the sweetest, that sounds to the charge;
His guns and his balls are the tools of his trade,
Which no courage can baffle, no art can evade;-
Britannia's the word,--sure magic is in it,-
Till he comes to close quarters, he chides the slow minute.

Blow briskly ye gales,
And swell her proud sails;
Now windward she wears,
Crowds her sails and makes

way ;-
Now downward she bears

See her lightning-hark ! her thunderWhile old Neptune beholds, with delight and with wonder,

His Britons build ships in a day.

In proof that the sea is our dock, I'll advance
The names of some shipwrights who've humbled proud

France,
Hawke, Rodney, and Vincent, brave Bridport and Hood,
Howe, Duncan, and Warren, and bold Collingwood.
“ Britons strike home,”-their word-sure magic is in it,
Till they come to close quarters, they chide the slow minute.

Blow briskly ye gales,
And swell their proud sails;-
Now windward they wear,
Crowd their sails and make way;-

Now downward they bear

See their lightning-hark! their thunderWhile old Neptune beholds, with delight and with wonder,

His heroes build ships in a day.

;

As expert as these shipwrights, I will maintain,
That
many

such craftsmen now sail on the main Who like Nelson would build-like Nelson would die-. Like Nelson, advancing, would exultingly cry“Our country's the word,”—sure magic is in it, Until laid alongside, they chide the slow minute.

Blow briskly ye gales,
And swell their proud sails;
Now windward they wear,
Crowd their sails and make

way;
Now downward they bear-

See their lightning-hark! their thunderWhile old Neptune beholds, with delight and with wonder,

His Nelson build fleets in a day.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF BENEDETTO

MENZINI.

LET other bards the Rose's charms proclaim,

And praise the splendor of her beauty gay;
While I assert the Violet's fairer claim,

To bear from ev'ry flower the palm away.

When to the gale she languidly displays

Her pallid leaves along the verdant ground;
That pallid hue a languid heart betrays,

Made faint and feeble by love's ling’ring wound !

With rosy wreath let youth his temples bind,
While gay, he quaffs in pleasure's jocund bower;

,
But to the tender lover's pensive mind
Shalt thou, fair Violet, be the dearest flower.

SONNET.

[WRITTEN ON THE RIVER GANGES, ON TAKING LEAVE OF A FRIEND.]

As yon high bourn recedes from painful view,
Where seems to linger still the last Adieu:
Sad sounds the pond'rous splash from ev'ry oar,
That pulls us sorrowing from the distant shore;
Where warm unalter’d friendship ever smild,
And many a casual misery beguiled.
Down the unruffled sacred stream we glide,
And pass th’unconscious objects on its side,
Which serve both joy and sorrow to betray,
As pains or pleasures past have fled away,–
Wrings from fond memory's wounds the fruitless sigh,
And points to long-lost happiness gone by.
So hopeless mem’ry starts with wild dismay,
To find all objects but itself decay.

TO A SCEPTIC.

You've proved, great Sir, with skill profound,

That nothing certain's to be found;-
To thee respect I always pay,

So doubt the truth of what you say.

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