Hope

"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 decayed;

When wrapt [wrapped] in fire, the realms of ether glow,

And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below;

Thou, undismayed, shall o'er the ruins smile,

And light thy torch at nature's funeral pile."

Campbell.

Of all the sensations that pervade the human breast-which stimulate to virtue and excite to action the various classes of mankind, there is none that can justly be considered paramount to this exalted subject, to which the pen of Campbell has done such ample justice; and in his closing paragraph quoted above, there is displayed a reach of thought that remains yet to be exceeded. A metephor [metaphor] as brief and yet so perfect, I have seldom, if ever, seen.

"Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade," Happy has it been for man, that such is the case; were it not for that inherent principle, which God in his goodness has implanted in the heart of man, this life, with all its attendant train of ills, would be insupportable indeed.-But in possession of this ethereal stimulus, we are enabled to press forward, regardless of all the cares and ills of this perplexing world, and unmindful of the present, fix our eye with bright anticipation, upon a far more glorious future, yet in reserve for him "who hopeth all things." None are exempt from its supreme but salutary sway. From the humble suppliant who begs a paltry pittance at our door, to the august emperor who proudly mounts a throne, with his foot upon the necks of Princes, and holding in his right hand the scepter of arbitrary power, demonstrates to the world, and his supreme command fixes irrevocably the fate of nations. But seat that Monarch there with nought [naught] but present power to gratify his swelling soul-with no hope that he should ever advance one jot or tittle, but remain, though great and permanently so, in an entirely quiescent state, neither loved nor feared by Emperors abroad, not menials at home: but find his commands indifferently obeyed, merely as a thing which came by course-no hope of changed, nor cause for conquest; would not his mind clog and be disgusted with so monotonous a scene? Well might it be said that happiness consists in anticipation. Tell what stimulates yon haggard youth to bend by night and day over that huge and musty pile of ancient volumes, thus wasting his health and all his manly strength by unwearied application, unto his sallow cheek and sunken eye, and grow of palid [pallid] marble, attests consumption's fast approach? Ah! the fond hope of becoming signalized as the most profound historian of his age, of securing to himself and imperishable name, of transmitting to ages yet to come volumes of learned lore, the products of his pen, that shall impart to those of the deepest and most extensive research, something new. What impels that bold and intrepid warrior officer thus to dare the horrid front of war, and fily from rank to rank among his men, a target for the opposing foe, regardless of the glancing blade and whizzing ball, that like lightning pass on every side? Alas! The fond hope of accumulating victories, speeds him on to carnage and to death! But the fearless, determined patriot, who shrinks because of cold, hunger and fatigue; and from the instant that his country calls, is never absent from battle; but rather than feel an oppressing despot's power should triumph, will pour his heart's best blood out upon the altar of liberty, a sacrifice of a noble soul, stung by his country's wrongs, driven by injustice, to madness and the grave. By what strange impetus is he impelled? Is it aught [ought] by hope alone?-Hope that he may one day be freed from dire oppression, nor longer be subject to the beck and will of a ruthless and reckless despot. Ah! these are superior spirits, upon whom the world must ever look with wonder and admiration! Yet how many have gone down to the shades of eternity, and left their country bleeding in the chains of anarchy? Such was Cincinnatus, was Tell, was Bruce, was Washington.

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Friends of the world! Restore your swords to man,

Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yes, there are hearts, prophetic hope may trust,

And make his arm puissant as your own! That slumber yet in uncreated dust,

Oh! once again to freedom's cause return, Ordained to fire the adoring sons of earth,

The patriot Tell-the Bruce of Bannock Burn, With evry [every] charm of wisdom and of worth."

But to give our last and most important instance. An aged christian whose narrow span scorned by the world, contemned by all mankind, and now his brightest prospect is to drop into his grave unnoticed and unknown. It may be perchance,

"High hopes danced through his youthful breast He hath seen "friend after friend depart,

And clothed the spring of life with flowers" Who hath not lost a friend"?

But those flowers have long since faded and withered;

But over his eyes, too, the shades of death are now about to close-and then succeeds the dreamless night of the tomb. While he muses upon the past, the present, and the future, wrapt [wrapped] in silent meditation, he already seems to feel the King of terror's icy hand, laid softly on his brow-to hear the rumbling clods strike harshly on his coffin, and with a hollow voice exclaim., "Dust thou art and to dust shalt thou return." The chilled blood recedes to his heart, and he is ready to cry out, "Ah, me! nor hope nor life remains!" But hark-a still small voice whispers in his ear, "Hope, springs eternal in the human breast."

"Hope looks beyond the bounds of time, The quivering lip, pale cheek and closing eye!

When that we now deplore The strife is o'er-the pangs of nature close,

Shall rise in full immortal prime,- Then life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.

And bloom to fade no more." Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey

What though no dazzling hope aspire The morning dream of life's eternal day

To be a second Washington- Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,

Yet ye may rise a monument above the stars. The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,

Unfading hope! when life's last embers burn, On Heav'nly winds that waft her to the sky,

When soul to soul and dust to dust return, Float the sweet tones of star born melody;

Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! Then, then, the triumph and the trance begins,

O! then thy kingdom comes! immortal power! And all the Phenix [Phœnix] spirit burns within!"

What, though each earth born spark of rapture fly, Martha Jane.