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I. 2.

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life,
That Genius visits not your lowly shed;
For ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife
Distract his hapless head!

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.

II. 2.

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,
Despair depicted in his eyes,

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.

II. 2.


By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,

By gentle Otway's magic name,

By him, the youth, who smil'd at death,
And rashly dar'd to stop his vital breath,
Will I thy pangs proclaim;

For still to misery closely thou'rt allied,
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side,
And far-resounding Fame.

What though to thee the dazzled millions bow,
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low;
Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe,
And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw
Yet ah! unseen behind thee fly

Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain,
And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky:
A melancholy train.

Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await,
Mocking thy derided state;

Thee chill Adversity will still attend,

Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend,
And leaves thee all forlorn;

While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs,
And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides,

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.



MILD orb, who floatest through the realm of night,
A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild,
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light,

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguil❜d.
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,
Nocturnal Study's still retreat,

It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,
And through my lofty casement weaves,
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,

An intermingled beam.


These feverish dews that on my temples hang,
This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame:
These the dread signs of many a secret pang,

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,
These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast
Sooth these discordant tones to rest,
And breathe the soul of peace;

Mild visitor, I feel thee here,

It is not pain that brings this tear,
For thou hast bid it cease.

Oh! many a year has pass'd away,
Since I beneath thy fairy ray,

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,
And mark'd the northern meteor's dance;
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there,
To inspirate my trance...

Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign ́
Your magic, sweets on me to shed,
In vain your powers are now essay'd,
To chase superior pain.

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb ?
So swiftly pleasure flies;

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,
Shall woo the god of soft repose—



LOUD rage the winds without.-The wintry cloud
O'er the cold north star casts her flitting shroud;
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale,
Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale;
Where now, shut out from every still retreat,
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat,
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood,

Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?
Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance
The drifted fleeces that around him dance,
And hurries on his half-averted form,
Stemming the fury of the side-long storm.
Him soon shall greet his snow-topt [cot of thatch,] ·
Soon shall his 'numbed hand tremble on the latch,
Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame;
Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud,
What merry groups of vacant faces crowd;
These hail his coming-these his meal prepare,
And boast in all that cot no lurking care.

What, though the social circle be denied,
Ev'n Sadness brightens at her own fire-side,
Loves, with fixed eye, to watch the fluttering blaze,
While musing Memory dwells on former days,
Or Hope, blest spirit! smiles-and still forgiv'n,
Forgets the passport, while she points to Heav'n.


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