Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise,
And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm; (15) Why great Navarre, (16) when France and freedom

Want with her babes round generous Valor clung, To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, "T was thine to animate her closing eye; Alas! 't was thine perchance the first to die, Crush'd by her meagre hand, when welcomed from the sky.

bled,

Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. When Diocletian's self-corrected mind (17) The imperial fasces of a world resign'd, Say why we trace the labors of his spade,

Hark! the bee (21) winds her small but mellow horn,

In calm Salona's philosophic shade.

Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn.
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course,
And many a stream allures her to its source.

To muse with monks unletter'd and unknown,

What from his soul the parting tribute drew?
What claim'd the sorrows of a last adieu?
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast
Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress'd.

Undamp'd by time, the generous Instinct glows
Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows;
Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest,
On every form of varied life imprest.

The social tribes its choicest influence hail:And when the drum beats briskly in the gale, The war-worn courser charges at the sound, And with young vigor wheels the pasture round.

Oft has the aged tenant of the vale Lean'd on his staff to lengthen out the tale; Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed, From sire to son with pious zeal bequeath'd. When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, And on the scathed oak warr'd the winter-wind; When not a distant taper's twinkling ray Gleam'd o'er the furze to light him on his way; When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, And the big rain-drops told the tempest near; Then did his horse the homeward track descry, (19) The track that shunn'd his sad, inquiring eye; And win each wavering purpose to relent, With warmth so mild, so gently violent, That his charm'd hand the careless rein resign'd, And doubts and terrors vanish'd from his mind.

Recall the traveller, whose alter'd form
Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm;
And who will first his fond impatience meet?
His faithful dog's already at his feet!

Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door,
Though all, that knew him, know his face no more,
His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each,
With that mute eloquence which passes speech. -
And see, the master but returns to die!

Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly?
The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of earth,
The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth,
These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred grave,
Will firm Fidelity exult to brave.

Led by what chart, transports the timid dove
The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love?
Say, through the clouds what compass points her flight?
Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the sight.
Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise,
Eclipse her native shades, her native skies:-
"Tis vain! through Ether's pathless wilds she goes,
And lights at last where all her cares repose.

Sweet bird! thy truth shall Haarlem's walls attest, (20)

And unborn ages consecrate thy nest.
When, with the silent energy of grief,
With looks that ask'd, yet dared not hope relief,

Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought,
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind;
Its orb so full, its vision so confined!
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell?
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell?
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue
Of varied scents, that charm'd her as she flew?
Hail, MEMORY, hail! thy universal reign
Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain.

THE Memory has hitherto acted only in subservience to the senses, and so far man is not eminently distinguished from other animals: but, with respect to man, she has a higher province; and is often busily employed, when excited by no external cause whatever. She preserves, for his use, the treasures of art and science, history and philosophy. She colors all the prospects of life: for "we can only anticipate the future, by concluding what is possible from what is past." On her agency depends every effusion of the Fancy, who with the boldest effort can only compound or transpose, augment or diminish, the materials which she has collected.

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When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble confidence which results from the consciousness of having acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of sense from their office, she not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in their combination. And even in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a distempered imagination, she revives past perceptions, and awakens that train of thought which was formerly most familiar.

Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter passages of life. Events, the most distressing in their immediate consequences, are often cherished in remembrance with a degree of enthusiasm.

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the passions, which is not very favorable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well-regulated mind that the Memory is most perfect; and solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment is introduced a Tale illustrative of her influence in solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the animal world, the Poem concludes with

SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.

Ages and climes remote to Thee impart What charms in Genius, and refines in Art; Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.

The friends of Reason, and the guides of Youth, Whose language breathed the eloquence of Truth; Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct, and the pure in thought; These still exist, (22) by Thee to Fame consign'd, Still speak and act, the models of mankind.

From Thee sweet Hope her airy coloring draws; And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows.

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening-ray, And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Stull through the gloom thy star serenely glows: Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light.

The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu, Oft of that world will snatch a fond review; Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace Some social scene, some dear, familiar face: And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper-bell Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent-cell, Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, To love and joy still tremblingly alive; The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong, Weave the light dance and swell the choral song; With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade, To each soft note return as soft a sigh,

And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly.

But not till Time has calm'd the ruffled breast, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave.

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The racks of thought, and freezings of despair! But pause not then-beyond the western wave, Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave! Crush'd till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes.

The simple transports that with freedom flew;
Catch the cool breeze that musky evening blows,
And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows;
The oral tale of elder time rehearse,
And chant the rude, traditionary verse
With those, the loved companions of his youth,
When life was luxury, and friendship truth.

Ah! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate?
Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create!
A little world of clear and cloudless day,
Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay;
A world, with Memory's ceaseless sunshine blest,
The home of Happiness, an honest breast.

But most we mark the wonders of her reign,
When Sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain.
When sober Judgment has his throne resign'd
She smiles away the chaos of the mind;
And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows,
From Her each image springs, each color flows.
She is the sacred guest! the immortal friend!
Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend,
In that dead hour of night to Silence given,
Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven.

When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round
With humble wares and pipe of merry sound,
From his green vale and shelter'd cabin hies,
And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies;
Though far below the forked lightnings play,
And at his feet the thunder dies away,
Oft, in the saddle rudely rock'd to sleep,
While his mule browses on the dizzy steep,
With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees
His children sport beneath their native trees,
And bends to hear their cherub-voices call,
O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall.

But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell? Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell? Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain, And mould the coinage of the fever'd brain?

Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies, There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies! He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought Each bold conception in the sphere of thought; And round, in colors of the rainbow, threw Forms ever fair, creations ever new! But, as he fondly snatch'd the wreath of Fame, The spectre Poverty unnerved his frame. Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore; And Hope's soft energies were felt no more. Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art! (23) From the rude wall what bright ideas start! Even now he claims the amaranthine wreath, With scenes that glow, with images that breathe! And whence these scenes, these images, declare: Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair?

Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore;

Awake, arise! with grateful fervor fraught, Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. He, who, through Nature's various walk, surveys The good and fair her faultless line portrays; Whose mind, profaned by no unhallow'd guest, Culls from the crowd the purest and the best; May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime, Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime, Or wake the Spirit of departed Time.

Far from the busy world she flies,
To taste that peace the world denies.
Entranced she sits; from youth to age,
Reviewing Life's eventful page;
And noting, ere they fade away,
The little lines of yesterday.

Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove,
Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove; (29)
Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper'd rite
Amused the fisher's solitary night:
And still the mitred window, richly wreathed,
A sacred calm through the brown foliage breathed.
The wild deer, starting through the silent glade,

Florio had gain'd a rude and rocky seat,
When lo, the Genius of this still retreat!
Fair was her form-but who can hope to trace
The pensive softness of her angel-face?
Can Virgil's verse, can Raphael's touch, impart
Those finer features of the feeling heart,
Those tend'rer tints that shun the careless eye,
And in the world's contagious climate die?

She left the cave, nor mark'd the stranger there;
Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air
Hnd breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul!
In every nerve he felt her blest control!
What pure and white-wing'd agents of the sky,
Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy,
Inform congenial spirits when they meet?
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet!

Florio, with fearful joy, pursued the maid, Till through a vista's moonlight-chequer'd shade, Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, (Their wars suspended, and their councils closed) An antique mansion burst in awful state, A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. Nor paused he there. The master of the scene Saw his light step imprint the dewy green; And, slow advancing, hail'd him as his guest, Won by the honest warmth his looks express'd. He wore the rustic manners of a 'Squire; Age had not quench'd one spork of manly fire; But giant Gout had bound him in her chain, And his heart panted for the chase in vain.

Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing Power! Wing'd with delight Confinement's lingering hour. The fox's brush still emulous to wear, He srour'd the county in his elbow-chair; And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming hound, That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round.

Long by the paddock's humble pale confined, His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind : And each, with glowing energy portray'd, The far-famed triumphs of the field display'd; Usurp'd the canvas of the crowded hall, And chased a line of heroes from the wall. There slept the horn each jocund echo knew, And many a smile and many a story drew! High o'er the hearth his forest-trophies hung, And their fantastic branches wildly flung. How would he dwell on the vast antlers there! These dash'd the wave, those fann'd the mountain-air. All, as they frown'd, unwritten records bore Of gallant feats and festivals of yore.

But why the tale prolong? His only child,

His darling Julia on the stranger smil'd.
Her little arts a fretful sire to plense,

Her gentle gaiety, and native ease

lad won his soul; and rapturous Fancy shed

Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red.
But ah! few days had pass'd, ere the bright vision fled!
When evening tinged the lake's ethereal blue,

And her deep shades irregularly threw;

With fearful gaze their various course survey'd.
High hung in air the hoary goat reclined,
His streaming beard the sport of every wind;
And, while the coot her jet-wing loved to lave,
Rock'd on the bosom of the sleepless wave;
The eagle rush'd from Skiddaw's purple crest,
A cloud still brooding o'er her giant-nest.

And now the moon had dimm'd with dewy ray
The few fine flushes of departing day.
O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung,
And her broad lights on every mountain flung;
When lo! a sudden blast the vessel blew, (30)
And to the surge consign'd the little crew.
All, all escaped-but ere the lover bore
His faint and faded Julia to the shore,
Her sense had fled!-Exhausted by the storm,
A fatal trance hung o'er her pallid form;
Her closing eye a trembling lustre fired;
"T was life's last spark-it flutter'd and expired!

The father strew'd his white hairs in the wind, Call'd on his child-nor linger'd long behind: And Florio lived to see the willow wave, With many an evening-whisper, o'er their grave. Yes, Florio lived-and, still of each possess'd, The father cherish'd, and the maid caress'd!

For ever would the fond enthusiast rove, With Julia's spirit, through the shadowy grove; Gaze with delight on every scene she plann'd, Kiss every flow'ret planted by her hand. Ah! still he traced her steps along the glade, When hazy hues and glimmering lights betray'd Half-viewless forms; still listen'd as the breeze Heaved its deep sobs among the aged trees; And at each pause her melting accents caught, In sweet delirium of romantic thought! Dear was the grot that shunn'd the blaze of day; She gave its spars to shoot a trembling ray. The spring, that bubbled from its inmost cell, Murmur'd of Julia's virtues as it fell; And o'er the dripping moss, the fretted stone, In Florio's ear breathed language not its own, Her charm around the enchantress MEMORY threw A charm that soothes the mind, and sweetens too!

But is Her magic only felt below? Say, through what brighter realms she bids it flow To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere, (31) She yields delight but faintly imaged here: All that till now their rapt researches knew; Not call'd in slow succession to review, But, as a landscape meets the cye of day, At once presented to their glad survey!

Each scene of bliss reveal'd, since chaos fled, And dawning light its dazzling glories spread; Each chain of wonders that sublimely glow'd, Since first Creation's choral anthem flow'd; Each ready flight, at Mercy's call divine, To distant worlds that undiscover'd shine; Full on her tablet flings its living rays, And all, combined, with blest effulgence blaze.