So to mankind, in darkness lost, The beam of ardour dies. Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, But I, in vain, on thorny bed TO THE MUSE. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. ILL-FATED maid, in whose unhappy train Chill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel So keenly all the scorns-the jeers of life? Why not endow them to endure the strife With apathy's invulnerable steel, Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal? Ah! who would taste your self-deluding joys, That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb? What is the charm which leads thy victims on To persevere in paths that lead to woe? Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found; [thrill! I, through whose soul the Muses' strains aye Oh! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied; And though our annals fearful stories tell, How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. TO LOVE. WHY should I blush to own I love? Why should I seek the thickest shade, Is it weakness thus to dwell ON WHIT-MONDAY. HARK! how the merry bells ring jocund round, the veering breeze; And now they die upon Full on the musing ear. Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore An ancient holiday. And lo! the rural revels are begun, Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep. Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare A transient visitor? Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy; In time the bell will toll That warns ye to your graves. I to the woodland solitude will bend shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour. There will I ponder on the state of man, Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate To sad reflection's shrine; And I will cast my fond eye far beyond This world of care, to where the steeple loud Where I shall sleep in peace. TO THE WIND, AT MIDNIGHT. NOT unfamiliar to mine ear, Blasts of the night! ye howl as now With fitful force ye beat. Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, TO THE HARVEST MOON. Cum ruit imbriferum ver: Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum VIRGIL. MOON of Harvest, herald mild 'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic throng, Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song. |