Merivale

What time towards the western skiesThe sun with parting radiance flies,And other climes gilds with expected light,Some aged pilgrim dame who straysAlone, fatigued, through pathless ways,Hastens her step, and dreads the approach of nightThen, the day's journey o'er, she'll steepHer sense awhile in grateful sleep;Forgetting all the pain, and peril past;But I, alas! find no repose,Each sun to me brings added woes,While light's eternal orb rolls from us fast.

When the sun's wheels no longer glow,And hills their lengthen'd shadows throw,The hind collects his tools, and carols gay;Then spreads his board with frugal fare,Such as those homely acorns were,Which all revere, yet casting them away,Let those, who pleasure can enjoy,In cheerfulness their hours employ;While I, of all earth's wretches most unblest,Whether the sun fierce darts his beams,Whether the moon more mildly gleams,Taste no delight, no momentary rest!

When the swain views the star of dayQuench in the pillowing waves its ray,And scatter darkness o'er the eastern skiesRising, his custom'd crook he takes,The beech-wood, fountain, plain forsakes,As calmly homeward with his flock he hiesRemote from man, then on his bedIn cot, or cave, with fresh leaves spread,He courts soft slumber, and suspense from care,While thou, fell Love, bidst me pursueThat voice, those footsteps which subdueMy soul; yet movest not th' obdurate fair!

Lock'd in some bay, to taste reposeOn the hard deck, the sailor throwsHis coarse garb o'er him, when the car of lightGranada, with Marocco leaves,The Pillars famed, Iberia's waves,And the world's hush'd, and all its race, in night.But never will my sorrows cease,Successive days their sum increase,Though just ten annual suns have mark'd my pain;Say, to this bosom's poignant griefWho shall administer relief?Say, who at length shall free me from my chain?

And, since there's comfort in the strain,I see at eve along each plain.And furrow'd hill, the unyoked team return:Why at that hour will no one stayMy sighs, or bear my yoke away?Why bathed in tears must I unceasing mourn?Wretch that I was, to fix my sightFirst on that face with such delight,Till on my thought its charms were strong imprest,Which force shall not efface, nor art,Ere from this frame my soul dispart!Nor know I then if passion's votaries rest.

O hasty strain, devoid of worth,Sad as the bard who brought thee forth,Show not thyself, be with the world at strife,From nook to nook indulge thy grief;While thy lorn parent seeks relief,Nursing that amorous flame which feeds his life!