Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 11 1822.pdf/7

 And of some nameless combat; Hope's bright eye Beams o'er thee, in the light of Prophecy! Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast; Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn, Rise in blue wreaths, above the flowering thorn, And 'midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom'd spire Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.

Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close Of Labour's day, the herald of repose, Which gathers hearts in peace; while social Mirth Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth; While peasant songs are on the joyous gales, And merry England's voice floats up from all her vales. Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear, Oh! if there still be melody on earth, Worthy the sacred bowers where man had birth, When angel steps their paths rejoicing trod And the air trembled with the breath of God; It lives in those sweet accents, to the sky, Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, When holy strains, from life's pure fount which sprung, Breath'd with deep rev'rence, falter on its tongue.

And such shall be thy music! when the cells, Where Guilt, the child of hoplesshopeless [sic] Misery dwells, (And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought.) Resound to Pity's voice; and childhood thence, Ere the cold blight hath reach'd its innocence— Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled, Which Vice but breathes on, and its hues are dead; Shall, at the call, press forward, to be made A glorious offering, meet for Him who said,