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SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still
I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,
Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame,
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,
See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom!
See round yon church-yard elm what spectres throng
Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,
The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene:
Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,
ODE TO THOUGHT.
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
HENCE away, vindictive Thought!
Thy pictures are of pain;
The visions through thy dark eye caught,
So pr'ythee back again.
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep,
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?
Why dost o'er bed and couch recline?
Pale visitant, it is not thine
To keep thy sentry through the mine,
The dark vault of the night:
"Tis thine to die,
While o'er the eye
The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly.
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 mayst bring ease;
But thou to me
So pr'ythee, pr'ythee plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee.
And, Memory, pray what art thou ?
Art thou of pleasure born?
Does bliss untainted from thee flow?
The rose that gems thy pensive brow,
Is it without a thorn?.
With all thy smiles,
And witching wiles,
Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles.
The drowsy night-watch has forgot
Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep,
Invoke thy tardy power;
And restless lie,
With unclos'd eye,
And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.
MANY there be, who, through the vale of life,
By them unheeded, carking Care,
With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.
But ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,
And self-consuming Spleen.
And these are Genius' favourites: these Know the thought-thron'd mind to please, And from her fleshy seat to draw
To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law, The captivated soul.
Genius, from thy starry throne,
High above the burning zone,
In radiant robe of light array'd,
Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,
He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,
Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,
Pangs that his sensibility uprouse
To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. Thou gav'st to him, with treble force to feel The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn. And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride.