3. Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl❜d, To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 4. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun- —a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 5. Oh, what is Beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft how smooth a cheek Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er Beauty's fall; Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 6. The most beloved on earth Not long survives to-day; And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 7. Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where dust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 8. Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun My race will run, I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done! On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment. I DREAM no more-The vision flies And Disappointment * * * * away, There fell my hopes-I lost my all in this, His health soon sunk under these habits; he became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. On his recovery he wrote the following lines in the church-yard of his favourite village. LINES WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD, ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. HERE would I wish to sleep.-This is the spot Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in ; Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, Beneath this Yew I would be sepulchred. It is a lovely spot! the sultry sun, From his meridian height, endeavours vainly Come, I will sit me down and meditate, And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, I would not have my corpse cemented down With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earth worm Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie In this low-thoughted world of darkling wo, Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body, To be thrown up again by some rude Sexton, Here stay his steps, and call his children round, I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, With head uncover'd, his respectful manner, And all the honours which he paid the grave, And thought on cities, where even cemeteries, Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, Are not protected from the drunken insolence |