And hark! the thatcher has begun And oft the hedger's bill is heard The slow team creeks upon the road, The driver's voice, his carol blithe, Who would not rather take his seat Who would not from life's dreary waste To him who simply thus recounts The morning's pleasures o'er, Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close Yet Morning! unrepining still, He'll greet thy beams awhile; And the pale glowworm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. ON DISAPPOINTMENT. COME, Disappointment, come! Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise; The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, [twine. And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the lingering knell That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, [here. Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, To wean me from the world; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! And then night sweeps along the plain, Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 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; [pall. Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her The most beloved on earth Not long survives to-day; So music past is obsolete, And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, N And cares and sorrows eat? Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still. Come, Disappointment, come! I bend my knee to thee. My race will run, I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done! On another paper are a few lines, written probably in the freshness of his disappointment. I dream no more—the vision flies away, There fell my hopes-I lost my all in this, ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY THE POET. CHILD of Misfortune! Offspring of the Muse! Mark like the meteor's gleam his mad career; With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, Behold he shrieking passes by : That hollow scream, that deepening groan; Oh come, ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, And drop, oh drop the silent tear His fate is yours, then from your loins Saw'st thou his dying bed! Saw'st thou his eye, Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil; How ghastly did it seem And then his dying scream: Oh God! I hear it still: It sounds upon my fainting sense, It strikes with deathly chill. |