I. 2. Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, For him awaits no balmy sleep, He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; Or, by his lonely lamp he sits, At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, In feverish study, and in moody fits His mournful vigils keeps. II. 2. And oh! for what consumes his watchful oil? For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath? "Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, "Tis for untimely death. Lo! where dejected pale he lies, Despair depicted in his eyes, He feels the vital flame decrease, He sees the grave, wide-yawning for its prey, Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, And cheer the expiring ray. III. 2. By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, By gentle Otway's magic name, By him, the youth, who smil'd at death, For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, Corroding anguish, soul-subduing pain, And discontent that clouds the fairest sky: A melancholy train. Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, Mocking thy deriding state; Thee, chill Adversity will still attend, Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend, While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs, With bee-eyed wisdom, Genius derides, Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in his grave. FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON. I. MILD orb who floatest through the realm of night, Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguil'd. It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, II. These feverish dews that on my temples hang, These are the meed of him who pants for fame! My lamp expires;-beneath thy mild control, Come kindred mourner, in my breast, Soothe these discordant tones to rest, And breathe the soul of peace; Mild visitor, I feel thee here, It is not pain that brings this tear, Oh! many a year has pass'd away, Attun'd my infant reed; When wilt thou, Time, those days restore,' Those happy moments now no more, When on the lake's damp marge I lay, And mark'd the northern meteor's dance; Twin sisters faintly now ye deign, And art thou filed, thou welcome orb, So to mankind in darkness lost, The beam of ardour dies. Wan Moon thy nightly task is done, Thou sinkest into rest; But I, in vain, on thorny bed, Shall woo the god of soft repose FRAGMENT. OH! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye, But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie; O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse, And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye, While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues, E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues. Oft I've beheld thee in the glow of youth, Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloom'd; And dropt a tear, for then thy cankering tooth I knew would never stay, till all consum❜d, In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd. But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift, Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow, Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance. |