And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world’s regard, that soothes, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it erred no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye The unfeeling proud one looks—and passes by, Condemned on Penury’s barren path to roam, Scorned by the world, and left without a home— Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray Down by the hamlet’s hawthorn-scented way, Where, round the cot’s romantic glade, are seen The blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green, Leans o’er its humble gate, and thinks the while— Oh! that for me some home like this would smile, Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm! There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine!— That generous wish can soothe unpitied care, And HOPE half mingles with the poor man’s prayer. HOPE! when I mourn, with sympathising mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see The boundless fields of rapture yet to be; I watch the wheels of Nature’s mazy plan, And learn the future by the past of man. Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime, Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore. On Erie’s banks, where tigers steal along, And the dread Indian chaunts a dismal song, Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, And shepherds dance at Summer’s opening day; Each wandering genius of the lonely glen Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men, And silence watch, on woodland heights around, The village curfew as it tolls profound. In Lybian groves, where damnèd rites are done, That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, Wild Obi flies[11]—the veil is rent in twain. Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home; Where’er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, From Guinea’s coast to Sibir’s[12] dreary mines, Truth shall pervade the unfathomed darkness there, And light the dreadful features of despair. Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed! Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns, And, as the slave departs, the man returns. Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And HOPE, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o’er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man![13]