Ode. To Hope. Poem by Susan Evance

FAREWELL seducing Hope! no more
Upon thy pinions wild I soar;
No more pursue thy sportive train
Through lovely Fancy's flowery maze,
Where, oft thy soul-inspiring rays
Us'd to enchant my maddening brain
With airy visions of delight,
That swam before my giddy sight,
And gave full many a phantom gay,
To strew with flowery sweets my way,
And point to glowing scenes, to rosy bow'rs,
Where happiness leads on the smiling hours.

Oh! I have stray'd along the vale,
Where the dove tells its tender tale,
While grey-eyed twilight's dewy hand
Led pensive on her lingering band,

And, watching over Nature's sleep,
All pale and sad, she seem'd to weep;
But then, fair Hope! thy cheering beam
Shot thro' obscurity a gleam;
Painted the gay reviving morn,
Whose blushes soft the hills adorn;
Each glittering flower that decks the vale,
The balmy-scented sportive gale,
And every sweet that morning's breath revives,
With many a charm that Fancy only gives!

But now each bright enchanting dream is o'er;
Thy beams, soft Hope! illume my path no more!
Fancy withdraws her fickle ray,
To some less wretched heart she flies;
Where smiling scenes, and cloudless skies,
Still cheer each lovely transient day.

Alas! by grief's chill hand opprest,
With wildly agitated breast,
I wander on the lonely shore,
Where the hoarse foaming billows roar.

While howling winds impetuous fly,
And blackest clouds involve the sky,
Despair's wild gloomy bands appear,
Pale Disappointment, haggard Fear,
And many a horrid ghastly form,
That rides upon the midnight storm,
Swells the loud gust with hollow moans,
And in the cave breathes dying groans.
On these rude sands my path I take,
And hear the waves tempestuous break
Upon the rock that stretches o'er
The sea-beat solitary shore;

And oft I think, the storms of Fate
Thus ruthless pour on my unshelter'd breast;
Never, oh never to abate,
Until in Death's cold arms I sink to rest.

Then faithless hope! a moment stay!
Illume my fleeting transient day:
Not deckt in sweet alluring smiles,
Not with thy train of sportive wiles;

But come with looks benignly grave,
And from despair my bosom save;
Gild with thy beams this dark oppressive gloom,
And point with steady hand unto the peaceful tomb!