Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food, Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, And with its plaintive warblings saddens all the place. Forgive me, Heaven !-yet-yet the tears will flow, All nipt and wither'd by one envious blast! Move heavily along ; 180 Where's now the sprightly jest, the jocund Time creeps unconscious of delight: How shall I find respose on a sad widow'd bed? Come, Theban drug, the wretch's only aid, Her voice soft whispering in my ear; May steal once more a balmy kiss, But, ah! th' unwelcome morn's obtruding light And wake me to the sense of all my woes: 200 Alas! what pleasures now can these convey? Through valley, grot, and grove: Nought can their beauties or my loss restore; -210 Sickness and sorrow hovering round my bed, Who now shall in my absence fondly mourn, Impatient for my quick return ? Should aught my bosom discompose, Who now, with sweet complacent air,... 220 Too faithful Memory- -Cease, O cease- (0 to forget her!)-but how vain each art, Whilst every virtue lives imprinted on my heart! And thou, my little cherub, left behind, cause, To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes, A My little darling!—dearer to me grown By all the tears thou'st caus'd-(O strange to hear!) Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own, Thy cradle purchas'd with thy mother's bier : By all thy soft endearments blest, gaze And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast, Alas! is gone -Yet shalt thou prove A father's dearest, tenderest love; 240 230 And, O sweet senseless smiler (envied state!), 250 As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate, When years thy judgment shall mature, And Reason shews those ills it cannot cure, Wilt thou, a father's grief to assuage, For virtue prove the Phoenix of the earth,— (Like her, thy mother dy'd to give thee birth) And be the comfort of my age? When sick and languishing I lie, Wilt thou my EMMA's wonted care supply? Say, wilt thou strive to make it less? MONODY VI. AN EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE. By the Same. SWEET bird! that, kindly perching near, Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain: And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the grove? Say, dost thou mourn thy ravish'd mate, That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung? Or has the cruel hand of Fate Bereft thee of thy darling young? Alas, for BOTH, I weep In all the pride of youthful charms, A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms! 10 |