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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,
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends,

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,
And Superstition's gentle terrors come,

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,
My flageolet-and, as I pensive play,

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
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night,
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene,

Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene,
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.




HENCE away, vindictive Thought!

Thy pictures are of pain;

The visions through thy dark eye caught,
They with no gentle charms are fraught,

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?
Is this thy new delight?

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

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?

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
To call the solemn hour;

Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep,
While I in vain, capricious Sleep,

Invoke thy tardy power;

And restless lie,

With unclos'd eye,

And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.



I. 1.

MANY there be, who, through the vale of life,
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife
Awakes them not to woe.

By them unheeded, carking Care,
Green-ey'd Grief, and dull Despair;
Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.

II. 1.

But ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,
And weeping Woe, and Disappointment keen,
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour,

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.

III. 1.

Genius, from thy starry throne,

High above the burning zone,

In radiant robe of light array'd,

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Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,
His melancholy moan.

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.

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