Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light,
Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled.
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,
Nocturnal study's still retreat,
It casts a mournful, melancholy gleam,
And through my lofty casement weaves,
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,
An intermingled beam.
These feverish dews that on my temples hang,
This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame;
These the dread signs of many a secret pang,
These are the meed of him who pants for fame!
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul:
Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high;
My lamp expires;-beneath thy mild control,
These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.
Come, kindred mourner, in my breast,
Soothe these discordant tones to rest,
And breathe the soul of peace;
Mild visitor, I feel thee here,
It is not pain that brings this tear,
For thou hast bid it cease,
Oh! many a year has passed away,
Since I beneath thy fairy ray,
Attuned my infant reed;
When wilt thou, Time, those days restore,
Those happy moments now no more.
When on the lake's damp marge I lay,
And marked the northern meteor's dance;
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there,
To inspirate my trance.
Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign,
Your magic sweets on me to shed,
In vain your powers are now essayed
To chase superior pain.
And art thou fled, thou welcome orb?
So swiftly pleasure flies;
So to mankind, in darkness lost,
The beam of ardor dies.
Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done,
And now, encurtained in the main,
Thou sinkest into rest;
But I, in vain, on thorny bed,
Shall woo the god of soft repose.
OH! thou most fatal of Pandora's train,
Consumption! silent cheater of the eye;
Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain,
Nor mark'st thy course with death's delusive dye, But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie:
O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse, And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye,
While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hues, E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues.
Oft I've beheld thee in the glow of youth,
Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloomed;
And dropt a tear, for then thy cankering tooth
I knew would never stay, till, all consumed,
In the cold vault of death he were entombed.
But oh! what sorrow did I feel, as swift,
Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly
Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow,
Preparing swift her passage to the sky.
Though still intelligence beamed in the glance,
The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye,
Yet soon did languid listlessness advance,
And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance.
Even when her end was swiftly drawing near,
And dissolution hovered o'er her head;
Even then so beauteous did her form appear,
That none who saw her but admiring said,
Sure so much beauty never could be dead.
Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye,
Bent lowly down upon the languid—
LOFFT, unto thee one tributary song,
The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring;
She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng,
And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring.
Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth,
Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild,
Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth,
And to thy bosom snatched misfortune's child:
Firm would she paint thee, with becoming zeal,
Upright and learned, as the Pylian sire,
Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, And show thy labors for the public weal,
Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme,
But ah! she shrinks abashed before the arduous theme.
SUBLIME, emerging from the misty verge
Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail,
As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale
Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge.
Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,
And falling leaves bestrew the wanderer's way,
Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night,
With double joy my homage do I pay.
When clouds disguise the glories of the day,
And stern November sheds her boisterous blight,
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray
Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height,
And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring,
The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring.
WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND.
FAST from the west, the fading day-streaks fly,
And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway;
Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie,
And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay.
Oh! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I wooed
The maid of musings by yon moaning wave;
And hailed the moon's mild beam, which now renewed,
Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave!
The busy world pursues its boisterous way,
The noise of revelry still echoes round;
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay;
Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound.
Oh! that like thee I might bid sorrow cease,
And 'neath the greensward sleep-the sleep of peace.
MISFORTUNE, I am young,-my chin is bare,
And I have wondered much when men have told How youth was free from sorrow and from care, That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. Sure dost not like me!-Shrivelled hag of hate,
My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long;
I am not either, Beldame, over strong;
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate,
For thou, sweet fury, art my utter hate.
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate;
I am yet young, and do not like thy face;
And lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase,
I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage,
Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age.
As thus oppressed with many a heavy care,
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet
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