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But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and wellregulated mind that the Memory is most perfect; and solitude is her best sphere of action.....With this sentiment is introduced a Tale, illustrative of her influence in solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having now been considered, so far as relates to man and the animal world, the Poem concludes with a conjecture, that superior beings are blest with a nobler exercise of this faculty.




SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale,

Oft up the tide of Time I turn my sail,

To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours,

Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. →

Ages and climes remote to Thee impart
What charms in Genius, and refines in Art:
Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell,
The pensive portress of her holy cell;

Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp,
Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp. ▾

The friends of Reason, and the guides of Youth, Whose language breath'd the eloquence of Truth; Whose life, beyond perceptive wisdom, taught The great in conduct, and the pure in thought;

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These still exist, by Thee to Fame consign'd,
Still speak and act, the models of mankind.

From Thee sweet Hope her airy colouring draws; And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows.

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening-ray, And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Still thro' the gloom thy star serenely glows; Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night With the wild magic of reflected light.

The beauteous maid, that bids the world adieu, Oft of that world will snatch a fond review; Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace Some social scene, some dear, familiar face, Forgot, when first a father's stern control Chas'd the gay visions of her opening soul: And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper-bell, Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent-cell,

Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive,
To love and joy still tremblingly alive;
The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong,
Weave the light dance, and swell the choral song;
With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade,
And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade,
To each soft note return as soft a sigh,
And bless the youth that bade her slumbers fly.

But not till Time has calm'd the ruffled breast, Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, Is heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave.

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there; Mark the fixt gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, The racks of thought, and freezings of despair! But pause not then....beyond the western wave, Go, view the captive barter'd as a slave! Crush'd till his high heroic spirit bleeds,

And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes.

Yet here, e'en here, with pleasures long resign'd, Lo! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind: Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul,

When the rude scourge presumes its base control;
And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse

The full reflection of their vivid hues.
'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more,
Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore;
Beneath his plantain's ancient shade, renew
The simple transports that with Freedom flew ;
Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows,
And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows;
The oral tale of elder time rehearse,

And chant the rude traditionary verse,
With those, the lov'd companions of his youth,
When life was luxury, and friendship truth.

Ah! why should Virtue dread the frowns of Fate? Her's what no wealth can win, no power create! A little world of clear and cloudless day,

Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay ;' A world, with Memory's ceaseless sun-shine blest, The home of Happiness, an honest breast.

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