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When pride and envy, and the scorn
Of wealth, my heart with gall embued, I thought how pleasant were the morn
Of silence, in the solitude;
Now, surely, thought I, there's enow
To fill life's dusty way;
Or wonder where he stray :
And I will build an osier bower;
The meditative hour.
And when the Autumn's withering hand
BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name
ODE TO MIDNIGHT.
Season of general rest, whose solemn still, Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill,
But speaks to philosophic souls delight, Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, My candle waning melancholy by,
I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, And gilds the misty shadows of the vales,
Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame, To her, while all around in sleep recline, Wakeful I raise my orisons divine,
And sing the gentle honours of her name;
While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends,
And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,
Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay.
The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors Hears them aghast,—(while still the dull owl pours
Her hollow screams each dreary pause between,)
Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven,and weep.
ODE TO THOUGHT.
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
Thy pictures are of pain;
So prythee back again.
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?
Is this thy new delight?
'Tis thine to die,
While o’er the eye The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows
Go thou, and bide with him who guides
His bark through lonely seas; And as reclining on his helm, Sadly he marks the starry realm, To him thou may'st bring ease;
But thou to me
Art misery, So pr’ythee, pr’ythee, plume thy wings, and from
my pillow flee.
And, Memory, pray what art thou ?
Art thou of pleasure born?
Is it without a thorn ?
With all thy smiles,
And witching wiles,
The drowsy night-watch has forgot
To call the solemn hour;
And restless lie,
With unclosed eye,
MANY there be, who, through the vale of life,
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
Awakes them not to wo.