The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast―(while still the dull owl pours Her hollow screams each dreary pause between). Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, ODE TO THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. I. HENCE away, vindictive Thought! Thy pictures are of pain; The visions through thy dark eye caught, So prithee back again. I would not weep, I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep? II. Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? Is this thy new delight? Pale visitant, it is not thine To keep thy sentry through the mine, The dark vault of the night: "Tis thine to die, While o'er the eye, The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. III. Go thou and bide with him who guides His bark through lonely seas; And as, reclining on his helm, But thou to me Art misery, So prithee, prithee plume thy wings and from my pillow flee. IV. And Memory, pray what art thou? Is it without a thorn? With all thy smiles, And witching wiles, Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. V. The drowsy night-watch has forgot To call the solemn hour; Lulled by the winds he slumbers deep, Invoke thy tardy power; And restless lie, With unclosed eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. GENIUS. AN ODE. I. 1. MANY there be who, through the vale of life, By them unheeded, carking care, With even tenor, and with equal breath; Alike through cloudy, and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death. II. 1. But ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, And self-consuming spleen. And these are Genius' favorites: these Know the thought-throned mind to please, And from her fleshy seat to draw To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, The captivated soul. III. 1. Genius, from thy starry throne, In radiant robe of light arrayed, Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favorite made, He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. Thou gavest to him, with treble force to feel, The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride. I. 2. Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, For him awaits no balmy sleep, He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; Or, by his lonely lamp he sits, At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, In feverish study, and in moody fits His mournful vigils keeps. II. 2. And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil? For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath? "Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 'Tis for untimely death. Lo! where, dejected, pale, he lies, Despair depicted in his eyes, He feels the vital flame decrease, He sees the grave, wide yawning for its prey, III. 2. By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, Corroding anguish, soul-subduing pain, Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, Thee, chill Adversity will still attend, Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend, While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs, Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in his grave. FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON. I. MILD orb who floatest through the realm of night, A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild; |