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217

CANTO FOURTH.

A new world rose, with Love at rest;
His wreath more blooming and more sweet
Than when 'twas lost. He Hope espied
Come smiling on him, like Spring's morn
Life-beaming—as some youth forlorn,
To see the maid he loves denied,
Through grave occasion should he meet
The fair one, pity in her breast—
Love's eager charity—her face
Bright'ning with smiles; as o'er the chase
Flee shadows when the sun-beams dart,
So vanish terrors from his heart;
And kisses that with transport burn
Tell heart for heart, and Love's return.
The youth's experience, more sublim'd,
Felt Love, Hope's grace so kindly tim'd.

218

His thoughts all soft and brilliant grew,
As early health sees morning dew
Catching the sun-rays, like a glass
Reflecting loveliness, all bright
With every hue obtain'd from light;
The drops seem gems strew'd o'er the grass.
Love flew to Hope; sweet pardon's kiss
Brought grateful tears, and all was bliss.
As Time still older grew, on earth
Men multiplied, till regions vast
Were amply peopled; good and ill
Flourish'd, but with unequal birth;
That with the flow'rs for increase class'd,
But this with all things else which fill
Creation's bound: where either cause
Rul'd paramount, the ambient air,
Impregnated, was foul or pure;
And where good triumph'd all was fair;
As good for ever blessing draws,
While evil can no bliss ensure.

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The lovely flowers of virtue shed
Eden's celestial fragrance round,
And health (through inspiration) spread;
But where the weeds of vice abound,
From them obnoxious vapours rise,
And foul, mephitic breath disperse,
Which taints men's hearts and blinds their eyes;
For all ill generates is curse!
Love trac'd the earth, and, foul or fair,
His wreath was emblem of the air;
As Hope perverse or ductile found
Capricious Love she smil'd or frown'd.
Love wing'd his flight creation round:
Where'er he came, in ev'ry clime,
'Twas ever Nature's holiday;
Roses were scatter'd in his way,
Though ever with them briers were found.
But, oh! his wreath foretold decay;
For Love grew vain, as old grew Time;

220

Since every knee before him bow'd,
His will became a holy law;
And of such homage Love grew proud;
Treated weak mortals as his slaves;
Which fail'd not upon Love to draw
Enmity, and resistance stern.
But vain the efforts of his foes:
Wisdom, strength, valour, had to learn
The power their daring would oppose;
For vain is he Love's power who braves.
Wisdom an arrant fool he made;
The boasts of Valour he defied,
And sent him writhing from the field;
When giant Strength his prowess tried
He prov'd to Love as chaff to fire.
Sages and monarchs forc'd to yield,
None dar'd against his will conspire,
And all the wreathed Love obey'd.

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Invested with such sovereign power,
“O'er all the peopled world” his sway;
Ebriate, he would the despot play,
Using his sceptre as a rod;
Till, with conceit inflated grown,
He deem'd the subject world his own;
And in a rash and frantic hour—
For Hope was far—assum'd the god,
And altars claim'd; his victims there
Were those he shot with bow and darts,
And on his altars every where
Were offer'd up their bleeding hearts.
To punish Love—immortal he;
Hence none could him destroy or bind—
Mad Passion came: with philters she
Hectic made Love, and—Love grew blind!
And all the roses of his wreath
Grew pallid, through her feverish breath;
And Love, in darkness since that day,
Has been by Passion led astray.

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Humbled, the god no more he feign'd;
Hope he implor'd, but call'd in vain;
Wond'ring, in darkness he remain'd,
And, weeping, sung a plaintive strain:
His tears, from eyes unblest with sight,
Seem'd like dew falling from sad night.
Shall I view thee, sun, no more?
Never more be bless'd with sight?
Yes, my dreams shall day restore,
And I shall bathe my eyes in light.
Yet, awaking from the dream,
O, what pangs will rack my mind!
Guided by no friendly beam,
Love, alas! alas! is blind.
Roses, by your odour led,
As music leads the tuneful ear,
I shall find your fragrant bed,
But not to me one rose appear.

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Sun, on me thy rays will shine,
I their warmth alone shall find;
Thine is day, but night is mine—
Love, alas! alas! is blind.
Hope, mine eyes were blue like thine;
Morn, like thine, my eyes were bright;
Would thy star, sweet morn, were mine,
To cheer me in this starless night.
Farewell Hope! but still to thee
I'll fondly sing, thou dear unkind!
Yet ever must the burthen be
Love, alas! alas! is blind.
But Love, though humbled, blind and sad,
The homage kept of every heart:
Poesy sang to make him glad,
And Music join'd her magic art,
Vainly, till with them Time combin'd:
His healing opiate calm'd Love's mind;

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And Love smil'd—sighing—for afar
Was Hope, his light, his leading star.
Hope, relenting, Love soon cheer'd,
And for her absence wrought amends;
She kiss'd his sweet extinguish'd eyes—
And 'tis as if the soul to kiss
When kissing eyes—his eyes she kiss'd;
And chas'd the tears that would arise:
Yet some, as loath to be dismiss'd,
Stood trembling in them, and appear'd
Like lov'd companions, robb'd of bliss,
Ling'ring o'er dear departed friends.
Hope sooth'd her Love, and for his sight
Gave him a beam of inward light,
By which he saw a secret guide
To lead him; Hope, too, at his side,
Fear to dispel and lull his pain;
She said on earth he must remain,

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For what were life when wanting Love?
Told him his wreath would be a charm
To soothe each sensitive alarm,
If for his type he took the dove;
But bloom no more like Eden's flowers
Till Love return'd to Eden's bowers;
For there, she said, he would alight,
And Eden's glories bless his sight,
When Time expir'd.—Hence, lovers cross'd
And parted, thinking they have lost
Their hearts' sole Eden, day by day,
Are ever wishing time away.
She bade him of caprice beware,
And use his golden bow and darts;
Changing their nature, by her skill,
To give sweet wounds, yet never kill,
But give affection's thrill to hearts.
Lovers she vow'd to make her care

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When love shot wisely; but, as men,
Adoring, would his altars throng,
Turning a blessing to a God,
They of their sin must reap the fruit,
And that they worshipp'd prove their rod;
So, when Love shot his darts again,
Since blind, at random he must shoot,
And random shafts oft wound the wrong.
Hence Lovers to this hour oft find,
When tied the knot, that Love is blind.
Each secret wish let reason move,
She'll guard from every erring dart,
Guiding the kindliest to the heart;
Then will the marriage garland prove
The gift of Hope, the Wreath of Love.