Night Brings Repose to Others, but Not to Him

In that still season, when the rapid sunDrives down the west, and daylight flies to greetNations that haply wait his kindling flame;In some strange land, alone, her weary feetThe time-worn pilgrim finds, with toil fordone,Yet but the more speeds on her languid frame;Her solitude the same,When night has closed around;Yet has the wanderer foundA deep though short forgetfulness at lastOf every woe, and every labour past.But ah! my grief, that with each moment grows,As fast, and yet more fast,Day urges on, is heaviest at its close.

When Phoebus rolls his everlasting wheelsTo give night room; and from encircling wood,Broader and broader yet descends the shade;The labourer arms him for his evening trade,And all the weight his burthen'd heart concealsLightens with glad discourse or descant rude;Then spreads his board with food,Such as the forest hoarTo our first fathers bore,By us disdain'd, yet praised in hall and bower,But, let who will the cup of joyance pour,I never knew, I will not say of mirth,But of repose, an hour,When Phoebus leaves, and stars salute the earth.

Yon shepherd, when the mighty star of dayHe sees descending to its western bed,And the wide Orient all with shade embrown'd,Takes his old crook, and from the fountain head,Green mead, and beechen bower, pursues his way,Calling, with welcome voice, his flocks around;Then far from human sound,Some desert cave he strowsWith leaves and verdant boughs,And lays him down, without a thought, to sleep.Ah, cruel Love!--then dost thou bid me keepMy idle chase, the airy steps pursuingOf her I ever weep,Who flies me still, my endless toil renewing.

E'en the rude seaman, in some cave confined,Pillows his head, as daylight quits the scene,On the hard deck, with vilest mat o'erspread;And when the Sun in orient wave sereneBathes his resplendent front, and leaves behindThose antique pillars of his boundless bed;Forgetfulness has shedO'er man, and beast, and flower,Her mild restoring power:But my determined grief finds no repose;And every day but aggravates the woesOf that remorseless flood, that, ten long years,Flowing, yet ever flows,Nor know I what can check its ceaseless tears.