Congenial HOPE! thy passion-kindling power, How bright, how strong, in youth’s untroubled hour! On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. “Go, child of Heaven! (thy wingèd words proclaim) ’Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame? Lo! Newton, priest of nature, shines afar, Scans the wide world, and numbers every star! Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye! Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound, The speed of light, the circling march of sound; With Franklin grasp the lightning’s fiery wing, Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string.[6] “The Swedish sage[7] admires, in yonder bowers, His winged insects, and his rosy flowers; Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train With sounding horn, and counts them on the plain— So once, at Heaven’s command, the wanderers came To Eden’s shade, and heard their various name. “Far from the world, in yon sequestered clime, Slow pass the sons of Wisdom more sublime; Calm as the fields of Heaven his sapient eye The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high, Admiring Plato, on his spotless page, Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage:[8] ‘Shall nature bound to earth’s diurnal span The fire of God, the immortal soul of man?’ “Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lightened eye To Wisdom’s walks, the sacred Nine are nigh: Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, From streams that wander in eternal light, Ranged on their hill, Harmonia’s daughters swell The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell; Deep from his vaults, the Loxian murmurs flow,[9] And Pythia’s awful organ peals below. “Beloved of Heaven! the smiling Muse shall shed Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head; Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, And breathe a holy madness o’er thy mind. I see thee roam her guardian power beneath, And talk with spirits on the midnight heath; Enquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, And ask each blood-stained 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 hue, 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 recall, 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 impassioned souls the joy of grief?