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To join the artless maid, and honest swain,
Where fortune rudely bars the way to joy;
To ease the tender mother's anxious pain,

And guard, with fostering hand, her darling boy!

To raise up modest merit from the ground,
And send the unhappy, smiling, from my door;
To spread content and chearfulness around,
And banquet on the blessings of the poor!

Delicious dream!-how often dost thou give
A gleam of bliss, which truth would but destroy;
Oft dost thou bid my drooping heart revive,

And catch one chearful glimpse of transient joy.

And, oh! how precious is that timely friend,
Who checks affliction in her dread career!
Who knows distress, well knows that he may lend

One hour of life, who stops one rising tear.

O, but for thee, long since the hand of care
Had marked with livid hue my withered cheek;
Long since the shivering grasp of cold despair

Had chilled my heart, and taught it how to break :

For, ah! Affliction steals with transient flight,
Silent the stroke she gives, but not less keen;
And bleak misfortune, like an eastern blight,

Sheds black destruction, though it flies unseen.

O come, then, Fancy! and, with lenient hand,
Dry my moist cheek, and smooth my furrowed brow;
Bear me o'er smiling tracks of fairy land,

And give me more than fortune can bestow !

Mixed are her looks, and chequered all with ill;
Her smiles, the sunshine of an April morn;
The cheerless valley skirts the gilded hill,

And latent storms on every gale are borne.

Give me thy hope, which sickens not the heart, Give me thy wealth which hath no wings to fly, Give me the pride thy honours can impart,

Thy friendship give me, warm in poverty:

Give me a wish, the worldling may deride,

The wise may censure, and the proud may hate; Wrapt in thy dreams, to lay the world aside,

And snatch a bliss beyond the reach of fate.

LXVIII.

A VOW TO FORTUNE.

MRS HUNTER.

If e'er the moment should arrive, Which hope itself despairs to see, Fortune, this grateful heart shall strive, To rear a votive shrine to thee!

Buona Fortuna shall be placed

In golden letters round the dome; The weary pilgrim there shall rest, And wait the happier days to come.

A curious lamp of bold design,

With emblematic sculpture crowned, Shall burn before thy sacred shrine, And cast its trembling beams around.

It shall be formed of silent tears,

Slow dropping in the cave of care,

Through the cold gloom of lingering years, Congeal'd to crystal by despair.

It shall be wrought with tales of woe, Where Fortune turned the adverse tide; And taught the streams of chance to flow In currents Hope herself denied.

There Expectation's light shall burn,
And watchful Faith the flame preserve;
Though fears and chilling doubts return,
Hope still has patience in reserve.

Pure lambent flame! till death shall end
This mortal coil, and sorrow cease,

Thy rays shall consolation lend,

And light us on the way to peace.

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