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Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life,
For him awaits no balmy sleep,
He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; Or by his lonely lamp he sits
At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps,
In feverish study, and in moody fits
His mournful vigils keeps.
And oh! for what consumes his watchful oil?
For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath ?
'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil,
'Tis for untimely death.
Lo! where dejected pale he lies,
He feels the vital flame decrease,
He sees the grave wide-yawning for its prey, Without a friend to sooth his soul to peace,
And cheer the expiring ray.
By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,
By gentle Otway's magic name,
By him, the youth, who smil'd at death,
For still to misery closely thou'rt allied,
What though to thee the dazzled millions bow,
Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain,
Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await,
Thee chill Adversity will still attend,
Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend,
While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs,
And while the cup of affluence he quaffs
With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides,
Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave,
To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in his grave.
FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.
MILD orb, who floatest through the realm of night,
Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguil❜d.
It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,
An intermingled beam.
These feverish dews that on my temples hang,
These are the meed of him who pants for fame! Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul; Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high;
My lamp expires;-beneath thy mild control,
Come, kindred mourner, in my breast
Mild visitor, I feel thee here,
It is not pain that brings this tear,
Oh! many a year has pass'd away,
Attun'd my infant reed;
When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, Those happy moments' now no more,
When on the lake's damp marge I lay,
Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign ́
And art thou fled, thou welcome orb ?
So to mankind, in darkness lost,
The beam of ardour dies.
Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done,
And now encurtain'd in the main,
Thou sinkest into rest;
But I, in vain, on thorny bed,
LOUD rage the winds without.-The wintry cloud
Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?
What, though the social circle be denied,