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Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight,
And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely 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.
The maid of musings by yon moaning wave.
Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave!
The noise of revelry still echoes round,
Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound.
MISFORTUNE, I am young, my chin is bare,
And I have wonder'd 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! Shrivell’d hag of bate,
My phiz, (and thanks to thee,) is sadly long ;
I am not either, beldam, 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 oppress'd with many a heavy care,
(Though young, yet sorrowful), I turn my feet
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there, Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,
Fills my sad breast; and, tired with this vain coil, I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. And as amid the leaves the evening air Whispers still melody,-I think ere long,
When I no more can hear, these woods will speak; And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng, And I do ponder with most strange delight On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.
EMBLEM of life ! see changeful April sail
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise, Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale,
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail;
Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive,
While still the Fates the web of Misery weave;
Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies,
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear,
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear,
When he who now invokes you low is laid,
And chant a dirge to his reposing shade! For he was wont to love your madrigals:
And often by the haunted stream that laves
The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, Would sit and listen to the dying falls, Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstacy.
TO A TAPER.
'Tis midnight-On the globe dead slumber sits,
And all is silence-in the hour of sleep; Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,
In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep.
I wake alone to listen and to weep,
To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn; And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,
To think of days that never can return.
My eye surveys the solitary gloom;
Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.
TO MY MOTHER.
And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think,
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honours on thy weary head, Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Sooner the sun from his bright sphere shall sink,
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day,
To pine in solitude thy life away, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought !-where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home; While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.
Yes, 'twill be over soon.—This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,
When Henry's name is heard no more below.
They laugh in health, and future evils brave: Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,
While I am mouldering in my silent grave. God of the just-Thou gav'st the bitter cup; I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.
Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand !-let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away. And softly go to slumber with the dead. And if 'tis true, what holy men have said,
That strains angelic oft foretel the day
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey,
Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear:
Ere I depart upon my journey drear :
FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREUX.
The judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity and of love divine ; But mine is guilt thou must not, canst not spare,
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine.