Vain hope the irrevocable doom is past, Thy fruitless sorrow spare, Dare not to tax what heaven's high will decreed; Perhaps kind Heaven in mercy dealt the blow, And plunge the exulting maniac in despair. Droops the sweet mourner-but ere long Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food, And meditates the song: Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, And with its plaintive warbling saddens all the place. Forgive me, Heav'n!-yet, yet the tears will flow, To think how soon my scene of bliss is past! My budding joys, just promising to blow, All nipt and wither'd by one envious blast! My hours that laughing wont to fleet away, Move heavily along; Where's now the sprightly jest, the jocund song Time creeps, unconscious of delight: How shall I cheat the tedious day; And, oh :-the joyless night! Where shall I rest my weary head? How shall I find repose on a sad widow'd bed? Come, Theban drug, the wretch's only aid, Her voice oft whispering in my ear; But, ah! the unwelcome morn's obtruding light Alas! what pleasures now can these convey? And darkens all the scene with woe. Thro' valley, grot, and grove; Nought can their beauties or my loss restore; • Laudanum. Sickness and sorrow hovering round my bed, Who now with anxious haste shall bring relief, With lenient hand support my drooping head, Assuage my pains, and mitigate my grief? -Should worldly business call away, Who now, shall in my absence fondly mourn, Too faithful Memory-cease, oh! cease- (Oh, to forget her!)-but how vain each art, Whilst every virtue lives imprinted on my heart! And thou, my little cherub, left behind To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes, How oft to my full heart shalt thou restore By all the tears thou'st caus'd-oh! strange to hear! Thy infant steps to guide aright? By all thy soft endearments blest, And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast, Alas! is gone-yet shalt thou prove A father's dearest, tenderest love; And, O sweet senseless smiler (envied state!) When sick and languishing I lie, Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply? Say, wilt thou strive to make it less? To soothe my sorrows all thy cares employ, And in my cup of grief infuse one drop of joy? AN EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE. SWEET bird! that, kindly perching near, Pourest thy plaints melodious in mine ear, Not, like base worldlings, tutor'd to forego The melancholy haunts of woe; Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain: For, surely, thou hast known to prove, Like me, the pangs of hapless love; Else why so feelingly complain, And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the grove? Say, dost thou mourn thy ravish'd mate, That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung? Or has the cruel hand of Fate Bereft thee of thy darling young? Alas! for both I weep: In all the pride of youthful charms, A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms! A lovely babe that should have liv'd to bless, And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears, At once the source of rapture and distress, The flattering prop of my declining years! In vain from death to rescue I essay'd, By ev'ry art that science could devise; Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid, And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies. Then, oh! our comforts be the same, At evening's peaceful hour, To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame, And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bow'r. But why, alas! to thee complain, Soon shalt thou cease to mourn thy lot severe, The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring I count my sorrows by increasing years. Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say, O what delusion did thy tongue employ ! "That Emma's fatal pledge of love, Her last bequest, with all a mother's care, The bitterness of sorrow should remove, Soften the horrors of despair, And cheer a heart long lost to joy!" |