No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,—
Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you,
Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain,
Congenial spirits part to meet again!—

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew, What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu, Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell, And bade his country and his child farewell! Doom'd the long isles of Sydney Cove to see, The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee? Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, And thrice return'd, to bless thee and to part; Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low The plaint that own'd unutterable woe; Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, As burst the morn on night's unfathom'd gloom, Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, Beyond the realms of Nature and of time!

"And weep not thus, (he cried) young Ellenore, My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more! Short shall this half-extinguish'd spirit burn, And soon these limbs to kindred dust return! But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, The immortal ties of Nature shall expire; These shall resist the triumph of decay When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away! Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, But that which warm'd it once shall never die!

That spark unburied in its mortal frame,
With living light, eternal, and the same,
Shall beam on Joy's interminable years,
Unveil'd by darkness-unassuaged by tears!

"Yet on the barren shore and stormy deep,
One tedious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep;
But when I gain the home without a friend,
And press the uneasy couch where none attend,
This last embrace, still cherish'd in my heart,
Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part!
Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,
And hush the groan of life's last agony!

"Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's bier, And place my nameless stone without a tear; When each returning pledge hath told my child That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled; And when the dream of troubled fancy sees Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze; Who then will soothe thy grief when mine is o'er? Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore? Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied? Ah! no: methinks the generous and the good Will woo thee from the shades of solitude! O'er friendless grief compassion shall awake, And smile on Innocence, for Mercy's sake!"

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be,

The tears of love were hopeless, but for thee!
If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell,
If that faint murmur be the last farewell!
If fate unite the faithful but to part,
Why is their memory sacred to the heart?
Why does the brother of my childhood seem
Restored awhile in every pleasing dream?
Why do I joy the lonely spot to view,

By artless friendship bless'd when life was new?

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade.When all the sister planets have decay'd; When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile,

And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile!

NOTES

ΤΟ

PLEASURES OF HOPE.

PART II.

Note (a.) The noon of Manhood to a myrtle shade! Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade.—Dryden.

Note (b.) Thy woes, Arion!

Falconer, in his poem, The Shipwreck, speaks of himself by the name of Arion. See Falconer's Shipwreck, Canto III.

Note (c.) The robber Moor.

See Schiller's tragedy of the Robber, scene v.

Note (d.) What millions died that Cæsar might be great. The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Cæsar has been usually estimated at two millions of men.

Note (e.) Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,

March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore.

In this extremity, (says the biographer of Charles XII. of Sweden, speaking of his military exploits before the battle of Pultowa,) the memorable winter of 1709, which was still more remarkable in that part of Europe than in France, destroyed numbers of his troops: for Charles resolved to brave the seasons as he had done his enemies, and ventured to make long marches during this mortal cold. It was in one of these marches that two thousand men fell down dead with cold, before his eyes.

Note (f.) As on Iona's height.

The natives of the island of Iona have an opinion, 'hat on certain evenings every year, the tutelary saint Columba is seen on the top of the church spires, counting the surrounding islands, to see that they have not been sunk by the pow er of witchcraft.

Note (g.) And part, like Ajut,-never to return'

See the history of Ajut and Anningait, in the Rambler.

END OF PLEASURES OF HOPE.