“Yes; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given, And power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven; The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, That never mused on sorrow but its own, Unlocks a generous store at thy command, Like Horeb’s rocks beneath the prophet’s hand.[10] The living lumber of his kindred earth, Charmed into soul, receives a second birth, Feels thy dread power another heart afford, Whose passion-touched harmonious strings accord True as the circling spheres to Nature’s plan; And man, the brother, lives the friend of man. “Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven’s command, When Israel marched along the desert land, Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar, And told the path,—a never-setting star: So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, HOPE is thy star, her light is ever thine.” Propitious Power! when rankling cares annoy The sacred home of Hymenean joy; When doomed to Poverty’s sequestered dell, The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same— Oh, there, prophetic HOPE! thy smile bestow, And chase the pangs that worth should never know— There, as the parent deals his scanty store To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage Their father’s wrongs, and shield his latter age. What though for him no Hybla sweets distil, Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill; Tell, that when silent years have passed away, That when his eye grows dim, his tresses grey, These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, And deck with fairer flowers his little field, And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe Arcadian beauty on the barren heath; Tell, that while Love’s spontaneous smile endears The days of peace, the sabbath of his years, Health shall prolong to many a festive hour The social pleasures of his humble bower. Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, And weaves a song of melancholy joy— “Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy: No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine; No sigh that rends thy father’s heart and mine; Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past— With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world’s ungenerous scorn away.