Sonnet II

The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize,Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd;Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void;But HOPE stands by, and lifts her sunny eyesThat gild the days to come.--She still reliesThe Phantom HAPPINESS not thus shall glideAlways from life.--Alas!--yet ill betideAustere Experience, when she coldly triesIn distant roses to discern the thorn!Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain?Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn.Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain,When yet again, shining through april-tears,Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years.

In this chill morning of a wintry SpringI look into the gloom'd and rainy vale;The sullen clouds, the stormy winds assail,Lour on the fields, and with impetuous wingDisturb the lake:--but Love and Memory clingTo their known scene, in this cold influence pale;Yet priz'd, as when it bloom'd in Summer's gale,Ting'd by his setting sun.--When Sorrows fling,Or slow Disease, thus, o'er some beauteous FormTheir shadowy languors, Form, devoutly dearAs thine to me, HONORA, with more warmAnd anxious gaze the eyes of Love sincereBend on the charms, dim in their tintless snow,Than when with health's vermilion hues they glow.

By Derwent's rapid stream as oft I stray'd,With Infancy's light step and glances wild,And saw vast rocks, on steepy mountains pil'd,Frown o'er th' umbrageous glen; or pleas'd survey'dThe cloudy moonshine in the shadowy glade,Romantic Nature to th' enthusiast ChildGrew dearer far than when serene she smil'd,In uncontrasted loveliness array'd.But O! in every Scene, with sacred sway,Her graces fire me; from the bloom that spreadsResplendent in the lucid morn of May,To the green light the little Glow-worm shedsOn mossy banks, when midnight glooms prevail,And softest Silence broods o'er all the dale.

Seek not, my Lesbia, the sequester'd dale,Or bear thou to its shades a tranquil heart;Since rankles most in solitude the smartOf injur'd charms and talents, when they failTo meet their due regard;--nor e'en prevailWhere most they wish to please:--Yet, since thy partIs large in Life's chief blessings, why desertSullen the world?--Alas! how many wailDire loss of the best comforts Heaven can grant!While they the bitter tear in secret pour,Smote by the death of Friends, Disease, or Want,Slight wrongs if thy self-valuing soul deplore,Thou but resemblest, in thy lonely haunt,Narcissus pining on the watry shore.

How sweet to rove, from summer sun-beams veil'd,In gloomy dingles; or to trace the tideOf wandering brooks, their pebbly beds that chide;To feel the west-wind cool refreshment yield,That comes soft creeping o'er the flowery field,And shadow'd waters; in whose bushy sideThe Mountain-Bees their fragrant treasure hideMurmuring; and sings the lonely Thrush conceal'd!--Then, Ceremony, in thy gilded halls,Where forc'd and frivolous the themes arise,With bow and smile unmeaning, O! how pallsAt thee, and thine, my sense!--how oft it sighsFor leisure, wood-lanes, dells, and water-falls;And feels th' untemper'd heat of sultry skies!

Chill'd by unkind Honora's alter'd eye,“Why droops my heart with fruitless woes forlorn,”Thankless for much of good?--what thousands, bornTo ceaseless toil beneath this wintry sky,Or to brave deathful Oceans surging high,Or fell Disease's fever'd rage to mourn,How blest to them wou'd seem my destiny!How dear the comforts my rash sorrows scorn!--Affection is repaid by causeless hate!A plighted love is chang'd to cold disdain!Yet suffer not thy wrongs to shroud thy fate,But turn, my Soul, to blessings which remain;And let this truth the wise resolve create,

Thou child of NIGHT, and SILENCE, balmy SLEEP,Shed thy soft poppies on my aching brow!And charm to rest the thoughts of whence, or howVanish'd that priz'd AFFECTION, wont to keepEach grief of mine from rankling into woe.Then stern Misfortune from her bended bowLoos'd the dire strings;--and Care, and anxious DreadFrom my cheer'd heart, on sullen pinion, fled.But now, the spell dissolv'd, th' Enchantress gone,Ceaseless those cruel Fiends infest my day,And sunny hours but light them to their prey.Then welcome Midnight shades, when thy wish'd boonMay in oblivious dews my eye-lids steep,

INGRATITUDE, how deadly is thy smartProceeding from the Form we fondly love!How light, compared, all other sorrows prove!THOU shed'st a Night of Woe, from whence departThe gentle beams of Patience, that the heart'Mid lesser ills, illume.--Thy Victims roveUnquiet as the Ghost that haunts the GroveWhere MURDER spilt the life-blood.--O! thy dartKills more than Life,--e'en all that makes Life dear;Till we “the sensible of pain” wou'd changeFor Phrenzy, that defies the bitter tear;Or wish, in kindred callousness, to rangeWhere moon-ey'd IDIOCY, with fallen lip,Drags the loose knee, and intermitting step.

Ah! why have I indulg'd my dazzled sightWith scenes in Hope's delusive mirror shown?Scenes, that too seldom human Life has knownIn kind accomplishment;--but O! how brightThe rays, that gilded them with varied lightAlternate! oft swift flashing on the boonThat might at FAME's immortal shrine be won;Then shining soft on tender LOVE's delight.--Now, with stern hand, FATE draws the sable veilO'er the frail glass!--HOPE, as she turns away,The darken'd crystal drops.----Heavy and pale,Rain-pouring clouds quench all the darts of day;Low mourns the wind along the gloomy dale,And tolls the Death-bell in the pausing gale.

Ceas'd is the rain; but heavy drops yet fallFrom the drench'd roof;--yet murmurs the sunk windRound the dim hills; can yet a passage findWhistling thro' yon cleft rock, and ruin'd wall.The swoln and angry torrents heard, appal,Tho' distant.--A few stars, emerging kind,Shed their green, trembling beams.--With lustre small,The moon, her swiftly-passing clouds behind,Glides o'er that shaded hill.--Now blasts removeThe shadowing clouds, and on the mountain's brow,Full-orb'd, she shines.--Half sunk within its coveHeaves the lone boat, with gulphing sound;--and lo!Bright rolls the settling lake, and brimming roveThe vale's blue rills, and glitter as they flow.

Farewell, false Friend!--our scenes of kindness close!To cordial looks, to sunny smiles farewell!To sweet consolings, that can grief expel,And every joy soft sympathy bestows!For alter'd looks, where truth no longer glows,Thou hast prepar'd my heart;--and it was wellTo bid thy pen th' unlook'd for story tell,Falsehood avow'd, that shame, nor sorrow knows.--O! when we meet,--(to meet we're destin'd, tryTo avoid it as thou may'st) on either brow,Nor in the stealing consciousness of eye,Be seen the slightest trace of what, or howWe once were to each other;--nor one sighFlatter with weak regret a broken vow!

Proud of our lyric Galaxy, I hearOf faded Genius with supreme disdain;As when we see the Miser bend insaneO'er his full coffers, and in accents drearDeplore imagin'd want;--and thus appearTo me those moody Censors, who complain,As Shaftsbury plain'd in a now boasted reign,That “POESY had left our darken'd sphere.”Whence may the present stupid dream be tracedThat now she shines not as in days foregone?Perchance neglected, often shine in wasteHer LIGHTS, from number into confluence run,More than when thinly in th' horizon placedEach Orb shone separate, and appear'd a Sun.

“For they wou'd each bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus.”

O partial MEMORY! Years, that fled too fast,From thee in more than pristine beauty rise,Forgotten all the transient tears and sighsSomewhat that dimm'd their brightness! Thou hast chas'dEach hovering mist from the soft Suns, that grac'dOur fresh, gay morn of Youth;--the Heart's high prize,Friendship,--and all that charm'd us in the eyesOf yet unutter'd Love.--So pleasures past,That in thy crystal prism thus glow sublime,Beam on the gloom'd and disappointed MindWhen Youth and Health, in the chill'd grasp of Time,Shudder and fade;--and cypress buds we findOrdain'd Life's blighted roses to supply,While but reflected shine the golden lights of Joy.

See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head;His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew;His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue;His train, a sable cloud, with murky redStreak'd.--Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shedPetrific death!--Lean, wailful Birds pursue,On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor,Amid the battling blast of all the Winds,That, while their sleet the climbing Sailor blinds,Lash the white surges to the sounding shore.So com'st thou, WINTER, finally to doomThe sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays,Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb,Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days.

O, GENIUS! does thy Sun-resembling beamTo the internal eyes of Man displayIn clearer prospect, the momentous wayThat leads to peace? Do they not rather seemDazzled by lustres in continual stream,Till night they find in such excessive day?Art thou not prone, with too intense a ray,To gild the hope improbable, the dreamOf fancied good?--or bid the sigh upbraidImaginary evils, and involveAll real sorrow in a darker shade?To fond credulity, to rash resolveDost thou not prompt, till reason's sacred aidAnd fair discretion in thy fires dissolve?

That song again!--its sounds my bosom thrill,Breathe of past years, to all their joys allied;And, as the notes thro' my sooth'd spirits glide,Dear Recollection's choicest sweets distill,Soft as the Morn's calm dew on yonder hill,When slants the Sun upon its grassy side,Tinging the brooks that many a mead divideWith lines of gilded light; and blue, and still,The distant lake stands gleaming in the vale.Sing, yet once more, that well-remember'd strain,Which oft made vocal every passing galeIn days long fled, in Pleasure's golden reign,The youth of chang'd HONORA!--now it wearsHer air--her smile--spells of the vanish'd years!

Last night her Form the hours of slumber bless'dWhose eyes illumin'd all my youthful years.--Spirit of dreams, at thy command appearsEach airy Shape, that visiting our rest,Dismays, perplexes, or delights the breast.My pensive heart this kind indulgence cheers;Bliss, in no waking moment now possess'd,Bliss, ask'd of thee with Memory's thrilling tears,Nightly I cry, how oft, alas! in vain,Give, by thy powers, that airy Shapes controul,HONORA to my visions!--ah! ordainHer beauteous lip may wear the smile that stole,In years long fled, the sting from every pain!Show her sweet face, ah show it to my soul!

When Death, or adverse Fortune's ruthless gale,Tears our best hopes away, the wounded HeartExhausted, leans on all that can impartThe charm of Sympathy; her mutual wailHow soothing! never can her warm tears failTo balm our bleeding grief's severest smart;Nor wholly vain feign'd Pity's solemn art,Tho' we should penetrate her sable veil.Concern, e'en known to be assum'd, our painsRespecting, kinder welcome far acquiresThan cold Neglect, or Mirth that Grief profanes.Thus each faint Glow-worm of the Night conspires,Gleaming along the moss'd and darken'd lanes,To cheer the Gloom with her unreal fires.

Lo! the YEAR's FINAL DAY!--Nature performsIts obsequies with darkness, wind, and rain;But Man is jocund.--Hark! th' exultant strainFrom towers and steeples drowns the wintry storms!No village spire but to the cots and farms,Right merrily, its scant and tuneless pealRings round!--Ah! joy ungrateful!--mirth insane!Wherefore the senseless triumph, ye, who feelThis annual portion of brief Life the whileDepart for ever?--Brought it no dear hoursOf health and night-rest?--none that saw the smileOn lips belov'd?--O! with as gentle powersWill the next pass?--Ye pause!--yet careless hearStrike these last Clocks, that knell th' EXPIRING YEAR!

Rapt CONTEMPLATION, bring thy waking dreamsTo this umbrageous vale at noon-tide hour,While full of thee seems every bending flower,Whose petals tremble o'er the shadow'd streams!Give thou HONORA's image, when her beams,Youth, beauty, kindness, shone;--what time she woreThat smile, of gentle, yet resistless powerTo sooth each painful Passion's wild extremes.Here shall no empty, vain Intruder chase,With idle converse, thy enchantment warm,That brings, in all its interest, all its grace,The dear, persuasive, visionary Form.Can real Life a rival blessing boastWhen thou canst thus restore HONORA early lost?

From Possibility's dim chaos sprung,High o'er its gloom the Aërostatic PowerArose!--Exulting Nations hail'd the hour,Magnific boast of Science!--Loud they sungHer victory o'er the element, that hung,Pressing to earth the Beings, who now soarAerial heights;--but Wisdom bids exploreThis vaunted skill;--if, tides of air among,We know to steer our bark.--Here Science findsHer buoyant hopes burst, like the bubble vain,Type of this art;--guilty, if still she blindsThe sense of Fear; persists thy flame to fan,Sky-vaulting Pride, that to the aweless windsThrows, for an idle Show, the LIFE OF MAN!

Dark as the silent stream beneath the night,Thy funeral glides to Life's eternal home,Child of its narrow house!--how late the bloom,The facile smile, the soft eye's crystal light,Each grace of Youth's gay morn, that charms our sight,Play'd o'er that Form!--now sunk in Death's cold gloom,Insensate! ghastly!--for the yawning tomb,Alas! fit Inmate.--Thus we mourn the blightOf Virgin-Beauty, and endowments rareIn their glad hours of promise.--O! when AgeDrops, like the o'er-blown, faded rose, tho' dearIts long known worth, no stormy sorrows rage;But swell when we behold, unsoil'd by time,Youth's broken Lily perished in its prime.

Now young-ey'd Spring, on gentle breezes borne,'Mid the deep woodlands, hills, and vales, and bowers,Unfolds her leaves, her blossoms, and her flowers,Pouring their soft luxuriance on the morn.O! how unlike the wither'd, wan, forlorn,And limping Winter, that o'er russet moors,Grey ridgy fields, and ice-incrusted shores,Strays!--and commands his rising Winds to mourn.Protracted Life, thou art ordain'd to wearA form like his; and, shou'd thy gifts be mine,I tremble lest a kindred influence drearSteal on my mind;--but pious Hope benign,The Soul's bright day-spring, shall avert the fear,And gild Existence in her dim decline.

In every breast Affection fires, there dwellsA secret consciousness to what degreeThey are themselves belov'd.--We hourly seeTh' involuntary proof, that either quells,Or ought to quell false hopes,--or sets us freeFrom pain'd distrust;--but, O, the misery!Weak Self-Delusion timidly repelsThe lights obtrusive--shrinks from all that tellsUnwelcome truths, and vainly seeks reposeFor startled Fondness, in the opiate balm,Of kind profession, tho', perchance, it flowsTo hush Complaint--O! in Belief's clear calm,Or 'mid the lurid clouds of Doubt, we findLOVE rise the Sun, or Comet of the Mind.

Long has the pall of Midnight quench'd the scene,And wrapt the hush'd horizon.--All around,In scatter'd huts, Labor, in sleep profound,Lies stretch'd, and rosy Innocence sereneSlumbers;--but creeps, with pale and starting mien,Benighted SUPERSTITION.--Fancy-found,The late self-slaughter'd Man, in earth yet greenAnd festering, burst from his incumbent mound,Roams!--and the Slave of Terror thinks he hearsA mutter'd groan!--sees the sunk eye, that glaresAs shoots the Meteor.--But no more forlornHe strays;--the Spectre sinks into his tomb!For now the jocund Herald of the MornClaps his bold wings, and sounds along the gloom.

What bashful wildness in those crystal eyes,Fair Zillia!--Ah! more dear to LOVE the gazeThat dwells upon its object, than the raysOf that vague glance, quick, as in summer skiesThe lightning's lambent flash, when neither riseThunder, nor storm.--I mark, while transport playsWarm in thy Lover's eye, what dread betraysThy throbbing heart:--yet why from his soft sighsFleet'st thou so swift away?--like the young Hind,That bending stands the fountain's brim beside,When, with a sudden gust, the western windRustles among the boughs that shade the tide:See, from the stream, innoxious and benign,Starting she bounds, with terror vain as thine!

Not the slow Hearse, where nod the sable plumes,The Parian Statue, bending o'er the Urn,The dark robe floating, the dejection wornOn the dropt eye, and lip no smile illumes;Not all this pomp of sorrow, that presumesIt pays Affection's debt, is due concernTo the FOR EVER ABSENT, tho' it mournFashion's allotted time. If Time consumes,While Life is ours, the precious vestal-flameMemory shou'd hourly feed;--if, thro' each day,She with whate'er we see, hear, think, or say,Blend not the image of the vanish'd Frame,O! can the alien Heart expect to prove,In worlds of light and life, a reunited love!

Why view'st thou, Edwy, with disdainful mienThe little Naiad of the Downton Wave?High 'mid the rocks, where her clear waters laveThe circling, gloomy basin.--In such scene,Silent, sequester'd, few demand, I ween,That last perfection Phidian chisels gave.Dimly the soft and musing Form is seenIn the hush'd, shelly, shadowy, lone concave.--As sleeps her pure, tho' darkling fountain there,I love to recollect her, stretch'd supineUpon its mossy brink, with pendent hair,As dripping o'er the flood.--Ah! well combineSuch gentle graces, modest, pensive, fair,To aid the magic of her watry shrine.

Dim grows the vital flame in his dear breastFrom whom my life I drew;--and thrice has SpringBloom'd; and fierce Winter thrice, on darken'd wing,Howl'd o'er the grey, waste fields, since he possess'dOr strength of frame, or intellect.----Now bringNor Morn, nor Eve, his cheerful steps, that press'dThy pavement, LICHFIELD, in the spirit bless'dOf social gladness. They have fail'd, and clingFeebly to the fix'd chair, no more to riseElastic!--Ah! my heart forebodes that soonThe FULL OF DAYS shall sleep;--nor Spring's soft sighs,Nor Winter's blast awaken him!--BegunThe twilight!--Night is long!--but o'er his eyesLife-weary slumbers weigh the pale lids down!

Nobly to scorn thy gilded veil to wear,Soft Simulation!--wisely to abstainFrom fostering Envy's asps;--to dash the baneFar from our hearts, which Hate, with frown severe,Extends for those who wrong us;--to revereWith soul, or grateful, or resign'd, the trainOf mercies, and of trials, is to gainA quiet Conscience, best of blessings here!--Calm Conscience is a land-encircled bay,On whose smooth surface Tempests never blow;Which shall the reflex of our life displayUnstain'd by crime, tho' gloom'd with transient woe;While the bright hopes of Heaven's eternal dayUpon the fair and silent waters glow.

Cou'd aweful Johnson want poetic ear,Fancy, or judgment?--no! his splendid strain,In prose, or rhyme, confutes that plea.--The painWhich writh'd o'er Garrick's fortunes, shows us clearWhence all his spleen to GENIUS.--Ill to bearA Friend's renown, that to his own must reign,Compar'd, a Meteor's evanescent train,To Jupiter's fix'd orb, proves that each sneer,Subtle and fatal to poetic Sense,Did from insidious ENVY meanly flow,Illumed with dazzling hues of eloquence,And Sophist-Wit, that labor to o'er-throwTh' awards of AGES, and new laws dispenseThat lift the mean, and lay the MIGHTY low.

Time, and thy charms, thou fanciest will redeemYon aweless Libertine from rooted vice.Misleading thought! has he not paid the price,His taste for virtue?--Ah, the sensual streamHas flow'd too long.--What charms can so entice,What frequent guilt so pall, as not to shameThe rash belief, presumptuous and unwise,That crimes habitual will forsake the Frame?--Thus, on the river's bank, in fabled lore,The Rustic stands; sees the stream swiftly go,And thinks he soon shall find the gulph belowA channel dry, which he may safe pass o'er.--Vain hope!--it flows--and flows--and yet will flow,Volume decreaseless, to the FINAL HOUR.

“Rusticus exspectat dum defluit amnis: at illeLabitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.” HORACE.

Yes, thou shalt smile again!--Time always healsIn youth, the wounds of Sorrow.--O! surveyYon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a preyTo warring Winds, and to their furious pealsSurging tumultuous!--yet, as in dismay,The settling Billows tremble.--Morning stealsGrey on the rocks;--and soon, to pour the dayFrom the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveilsIn all his pride of light.--Thus shall the glowOf beauty, health, and hope, by soft degreesSpread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe;Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please,Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow,Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas.

In sultry noon when youthful MILTON lay,Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade,Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian MaidSteals from her loitering chariot, to surveyThe slumbering charms, that all her soul betray.Then, as coy fears th' admiring gaze upbraid,Starts;--and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd,Slides in his half-clos'd hand;--and speeds away.--“Ye eyes, ye human stars!--if, thus conceal'dBy Sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart,Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'dYour rays had shone!”--Bright Nymph, thy strains impartHopes, that impel the graceful Bard to rove,Seeking thro' Tuscan Vales his visionary Love.

O! hast thou seen a vernal Morning brightGem every bank and trembling leaf with dews,Tinging the green fields with her amber hues,Changing the leaden streams to lines of light?Then seen dull Clouds, that shed untimely night,Roll envious on, and every ray suffuse,Till the chill'd Scenes their early beauty lose,And faint, and colourless, no more inviteThe glistening gaze of Joy?--'Twas emblem justOf my youth's sun, on which deep shadows fell,Spread from the PALL OF FRIENDS; and Grief's loud gustResistless, oft wou'd wasted tears compel:Yet let me hope, that on my darken'd daysScience, and pious Trust, may shed pervading rays.

While unsuspecting trust in all that wearsVirtue's bright semblance, stimulates my heartTo find its dearest pleasures in the partTaken in other's joys; yielding to theirsIts own desires, each latent wish that bearsThe selfish stamp, O! let me shun the artTaught by smooth Flattery in her courtly mart,Where Simulation's studied smile ensnares!Scorn that exterior varnish for the Mind,Which, while it polishes the manners, veilsIn showy clouds the soul.--E'en thus we findGlass, o'er whose surface clear the pencil steals,Grown less transparent, tho' with colours gay,Sheds but the darken'd and ambiguous ray.

As lightens the brown Hill to vivid greenWhen juvenescent April's showery SunLooks on its side, with golden glance, at Noon;So on the gloom of Life's now faded sceneShines the dear image of those days serene,From Memory's consecrated treasures won;The days that rose, ere youth, and years were flown,Soft as the morn of May;--and well I weenIf they had clouds, in Time's alembic clearThey vanish'd all, and their gay vision glowsIn brightness unobscur'd; and now they wearA more than pristine sunniness, which throwsThose mild reflected lights that soften care,Loss of lov'd Friends, and all the train of Woes.

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the graveOf the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty MoonCalls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;And from a hut, far on the hill, to raveIs heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud waveThe rous'd and turbid River surges down,Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shownAppals the Sense.--Yet see! from yonder cave,Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,With anxious brow, a fond expecting MaidSteals towards the flood!--Alas!--for now appearsHer Lover's vacant boat!--the broken oarsRoll down the tide!--What images invade!Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds,Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray,November, dragging on his sunless day,Lours, cold and fallen, on the watry fields;And Nature to the waste dominion yields,Stript her last robes, with gold and purple gay.--So droops my life, of your soft beams despoil'd,Youth, Health, and Hope, that long exulting smil'd;And the wild carols, and the bloomy huesOf merry Spring-time, spruce on every plainHer half-blown bushes, moist with sunny rain,More pensive thoughts in my sunk heart infuseThan Winter's grey, and desolate domain,Faded, like my lost Youth, that no bright Spring renews.

On the fleet streams, the Sun, that late arose,In amber radiance plays;--the tall young grassNo foot hath bruis'd;--clear Morning, as I pass,Breathes the pure gale, that on the blossom blows;And, as with gold yon green hill's summit glows,The lake inlays the vale with molten glass.--Now is the Year's soft youth;--yet me, alas!Cheers not as it was wont;--impending woesWeigh on my heart;--the joys, that once were mine,Spring leads not back;--and those that yet remainFade while she blooms.--Each hour more lovely shineHer crystal beams, and feed her floral Train;But ah with pale, and waning fires, declineThose eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.

Behold that Tree, in Autumn's dim decay,Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying Wind;Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we findLingering and trembling on the naked spray,Twenty, perchance, for millions whirl'd away!Emblem, alas! too just, of Humankind!Vain MAN expects longevity, design'dFor few indeed; and their protracted dayWhat is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn?The blasts of Sickness, Care, and Grief appal,That laid the Friends in dust, whose natal mornRose near their own;--and solemn is the call;--Yet, like those weak, deserted leaves forlorn,Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall!

Yon soft Star, peering o'er the sable cloud,Sheds its green lustre thro' the darksome air.--Haply in that mild Planet's crystal sphereLive the freed Spirits, o'er whose timeless shroudSwell'd my lone sighs, my tearful sorrows flow'd.They, of these long regrets perhaps aware,View them with pitying smiles.--O! then, if e'erYour guardian cares may be on me bestow'd,For the pure friendship of our youthful days,Ere yet ye soar'd from earth, illume my heart,That roves bewilder'd in Dejection's night,And lead it back to peace!--as now ye dart,From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays,That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright.

All is not right with him, who ill sustainsRetirement's silent hours.--Himself he flies,Perchance from that insipid equipoise,Which always with the hapless mind remainsThat feels no native bias; never gainsOne energy of will, that does not riseFrom some external cause, to which he hiesFrom his own blank inanity.--When reigns,With a strong, cultur'd mind, this wretched hateTo commune with himself, from thought that tellsOf some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of FateHe struggles to escape;--or sense that dwellsOn secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weightThrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.

On the damp margin of the sea-beat shoreLonely at eve to wander;--or reclin'dBeneath a rock, what time the rising windMourns o'er the waters, and, with solemn roar,Vast billows into caverns surging pour,And back recede alternate; while combin'dLoud shriek the sea-fowls, harbingers assign'd,Clamorous and fearful, of the stormy hour;To listen with deep thought those awful sounds;Gaze on the boiling, the tumultuous waste,Or promontory rude, or craggy moundsStaying the furious main, delight has castO'er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart,Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.

The breathing freshness of the shining Morn,Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields,A sweet, unutterable pleasure yieldsTo my dejected sense, that turns with scornFrom the light joys of Dissipation born.Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shieldsAgainst each glittering lance she gaily wields,Warring with fond Regrets, that silent mournThe Heart's dear comforts lost.--But, NATURE, thou,Thou art resistless still;--and yet I weenThy present balmy gales, and vernal blow,To MEMORY owe the magic of their scene;For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays,Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.

Since my griev'd mind some energy regains,Industrious habits can, at times, repressThe weight of filial woe, the deep distressOf life-long separation; yet its pains,Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.--My rest has lost its balm, the fond caressWont the dear aged forehead to impressAt midnight, as he slept;--nor now obtainsMy uprising the blest news, that cou'd impartJoy to the morning, when its dawn had broughtSome health to that weak Frame, o'er which my heartWith fearful fondness yearn'd, and anxious thought.--Time, and the HOPE that robs the mortal DartOf its fell sting, shall cheer me--as they ought.