« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
The thought-fix'd portraiture, the breathing bust, The arch with proud memorials array'd, The long lived pyramid shall sink in dust, To dumb oblivion's ever-desert shade.
Fancy from comfort wanders still astray. Ah, Melancholy! how I feel thy power ! Long have I labour'd to elude thy sway! But 'tis enough, for I resist no more.
The traveller thus, that o'er the midnight waste Through many a lonesome path is doom'd to roam, 'Wilder'd and weary sits him down at last; For long the night, and distant far his home.
ON ESCAPED the gloom of mortal life, a soul Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay, Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll, No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.
Like thee, I once have stemm'd the sea of life; Like thee, have languish'd after empty joys; Like thee, have labour'd in the stormy strife ; Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys.
Yet for awhile 'gainst Passion's threatful blast Let steady Reason urge the struggling oar ; Shot through the dreary gloom the morn at last Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore.
Forget my frailties, thou art also frail ; Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall Nor read unmoved my artless tender tale, I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all.
+ James Beattie : intended for himself.
Nov. 1, 1757.
To this grave is committed
All that the grave can claim
Of two brothers # * * * and
Who on the vii of October, MDCCLVII,
Both unfortunately perished in the * * * water :
The one in his xxii, the other in his xviii year.
Their disconsolate father . * *
Erects this monument to the memory of
These amiable youths ;
Whose early virtues promised
Uncommon comfort to his declining years,
And singular emolument to society.
O thou! whose steps in sacred rev'rence tread
These lone dominions of the silent dead,
On this sad stone a pious look bestow,
Nor uninstructed read this tale of woe;
And while the sigh of sorrow heaves thy breast,
Let each rebellious murmur be supprest;
Heaven's hidden ways to trace, for us, huw vain !
Heaven's wise decrees how impious to arraign !
Pure from the stains of a polluted age,
In early bloom of life, they left the stage :
Not doom'd in lingering woe to waste their breath,
One moment snatch'd them from the power of Death:
They lived united, and united died ;
Happy the friends, whom Death cannot divide !
Tired with the busy crowds, that all the day
Impatient throng where Folly's altars flame,
My languid powers dissolve with quick decay,
Till genial Sleep repair the sinking frame.
* Engraved on a tomb-stone in the church-yard of Lethnet, in the shire of Angus.
† Named Leitch, who were drowned in crossing the river Southesk.
Hail, kind reviver ! that canst lull the cares,
And every weary sense compose to rest,
Lighten th' oppressive load which languish bears,
And warm with hope the cold desponding breast.
Touch'd by thy rod, from Power's majestic brow
Drops the gay plume; he pines a lowly clown ;
And on the cold earth stretch'd the son of Woe
Quaffs Pleasure's draught, and wears a fancied crown.
When roused by thee, on boundless pinions borne
Fancy to fairy scenes exults to rove,
Now scales the cliff gay-gleaming on the morn,
Now sad and silent treads the deepening grove;
Or skims the main, and listens to the storms,
Marks the long waves roll far remote away;
Or mingling with ten thousand glittering forms,
Floats on the gale, and basks in purest day.
Haply, ere long, pierced by the howling blast,
Through dark and pathless deserts I shall roam,
Plunge down th' unfathom'd deep, or shrink aghast
Where bursts the shrieking spectre from the tomb:
Perhaps loose Luxury's enchanting smile
Shall lure my steps to some romantic dale,
Where Mirth's light freaks th' unheeded hours be.
And airs of rapture warble in the gale.
Instructive emblem of this mortal state!
Where scenes as various every hour arise
In swift succession, which the hand of Fate
Presents, then snatches from our wondering eyes.
Be taught, vain man, how fleeting all thy joys,
Thy boasted grandeur, and thy glittering store;
Death comes, and all thy fancied bliss destruys,
Quick as a dream it fades, and is no more.
And, sons of Sorrow! though the threatening storm
Of angry Fortune overhang awhile,
Let not her frowns your inward peace deform;
Soon happier days in happier climes shall smile.
Through Earth's throng'd visions while we toss for
lorn, 'Tis tumult all, and rage, and restless strife; But these shall vanish like the dreams of morn, When Death awakes us to immortal life.
Shakspeare's ' Blow, blow, thou winter wind.'
Blow, blow, thou vernal gale!
Thy balm will not avail
To ease my aching breast;
Though thou the billows smooth,
Thy murmurs cannot soothe
My weary soul to rest.
Flow, flow, thou tuneful stream;
Infuse the easy dream
Into the peaceful soul;
But thou canst not compose
The tumult of my woes,
Though soft thy waters roll,
Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers!
Beauties surpassing yours
My Rosalind adorn;
Nor is the Winter's blast,
That lays your glories waste,
So killing as her scorn.
Breathe, breathe, ye tender lays,
That linger down the maze
Of yonder winding grove;
O let your soft control
Bend her relenting soul
To pity and to love.
Fade, fade, ye flowrets fair!
Gales, fan no more the air!
Ye streams forget to glide!
Be hush'd, each vernal strain;
Since nought can soothe my pain,
Nor mitigate her pride.
WHEN in the crimson cloud of even
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of Heaven
His glittering gem displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive youth, of placid mien,
Indulged this tender theme.
• Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled
High o'er the glimmering dale ;
Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale:
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,
What time the wan Moon's yellow horn
Gleams on the western deep :
• To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms
Ne'er drew ambition's eye,
'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms,
To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequester'd bower
Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest power,
Leans on her ivy'd shrine.
• How shall I woo thee, matchless fair!
Thy heavenly smile how win?
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care,
And stills the storm within.