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النشر الإلكتروني

HOPE.

Man hath a weary pilgrimage

As thro' the world he wends,
Yet gentle Hope on every stage,

The comforter, attends.
And if the toil-worn traveller droops,

With heaviness opprest,
She cheers his heart, and bids him sec

The distant place of rest.

To school the little exile goes,

And quits his mother's arms; What then shall soothe his earliest woes,

When novelty has lost its charms ? Condemned to suffer thro' the day Restraints that no rewards repay,

And cares where love has no concern; If memory still the present sours, Hope lightens as she counts the hours

That hasten his return.

Youth comes, and eager fancy hails

The long-expected days : Youth comes, and he is doom'd to prove The fears and jealousies of love,

And all its long delays. But when the passions with their might

Affli&t the doubtful breast, Hope bids him yet expect delight,

And happiness, and rest.

When manhood comes with troubles rife, And all the toils and cares of life

Usurp the busy mind, Where shall the tir'd and harrass'd heart

Its consolation find.
Hope doubts not yet the meed to obtain

Of difficulties past,
And looks beyond the toils of gain

To wealth enjoy'd at last.

So to his journey's latter stage

His pilgrim feet attain,
And then he finds in wiser age

That earthly cares are vain.
Yet Hope the constant friend remains

Who sooth'd his troubles past,
Tho' oft deceiving and deceived

The truest friend at last.
By Faith and Hope in life's last hour

Are life's last pangs relieved,
They give the expectation then

That cannot be deceived.

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MUSINGS

On the WIG of a SCARE-CROW.

Alas for this world's changes and the lot

Of sublunary things ! yon wig that there

Moves with each motion of the inconstant air, Invites my pensive mind to serious thought. Was it for this its curious cawl was wrought

Close as the tender tendrils of the vine With clustered curls ? Perhaps the artist's care Its borrowed beauties for some Lady fair

Arranged with nicest art and fingers fine;

Or for the forehead fram'd of some Divine Its graceful gravity of grizzled grey ;

Or whether on some stern Schoolmaster's brow

Sate its white terrors, who shall answer now? On yonder rag-robed pole for many a day

Have those dishonour'd locks endur'd the rains And winds, and summer sun, and winter snow, Scaring with vain alarms the robber crow,

Till of its former form no trace remains, None of its ancient honours ! I survey

Its alter'd state with moralizing eye, And journey sorrowing on my lonely way,

And muse on Fortune's mutability.

THEODORIT.

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