"The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, "has been every thing to me; and did the world know how I have been indebted to the hours of repose, they would not wonder that night-images are, as they judge, so ridiculously predominant in my verses." During some of these midnight hours he indulged himself in complaining, but in such complaints that it is wished more of them had been found among his papers. ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 1. COME, Disappointment, come! Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. 2. Tho' Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation in her cell, Hears, with faint eye, the ling'ring knell, That tells her hopes are dead; And tho' the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile and say, my all was not laid here. 3. Come, Disappointment, come! Tho' from hope's summit hurl'd, For thou severe wert sent from heaven, From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never dié. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun-a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 5. Oh, what is Beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek, Beneath its surface lies? Mute, mute is all O'er beauty's fall, Her praise résounds no more when mantled in her påll. 6. The most belov'd on earth, Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, Thus does the shade, In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 7. Then since this world is vain, And volatile and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat! Why fly from ill, With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still. 8. Come, Disappointment, come! Thou art not stern to me; A votary sad in early day, I bend my knee to thee. From sun to sun, My race will run, I only bow and say, My God, thy will be done! |