See, from the wicker'd door, with yelp severe,
True cynic, as in tub e'er took his seat,
The peasant's cur, with sharp-erected ear,
And wagging tail, avert his vagrant feet:
His churlish master see! with grim malign,
In dull derision, shake his brainless head;
Nor, may he, with " the tale of Troy divine,"
Pelops, or Thebes, procure a scanty bed.
Beneath the midnight dews, and angry Jove,
Forc'd with th'unshelter'd savage to abide,
His lot to pity may that savage move,
And mock the falsehood of man's reas'ning pride.
But, such the baleful influence of that pow'r,
That, with misfortune, wrings the lonely mind;
Ev'n amid Nature's offspring, in that hour,
That tort'ring hour, no solace can he find.
Ev'n they, as with contempt or hatred stung,
Seem to adopt Ingratitude's vile plan;
And though awake to nought but present wrong,
Fly the sad footstep of forsaken Man!
O! what are all the cares of life?
Vain transitory, dubious strife;
The termagant and brave,
(Cares that must soon forbear to teaze,) Must join, in melancholy peace,
The world beyond the grave.
Mysterious world! could I but guess
What habitants thy space posses:
Say, are all wise, and good?
Or does the noisy coxcomb prate ?
The blockhead, there too, vex his pate,
With folly's idle brood?
Does injury there with iron hand
The lab'rer's scanty meal command,
And gripe the well earn'd fee?
Does genius die, unknown, unpay'd-
O! is the world in yon dread shade
This world's epitome.
Does dear seducing woman, ply
The syren lips, the roguish eye,
And beauty's gilded bait?·
If things go on in such a way,
I ween, 'tis better here to stay ;
Terra incognita may wait.
"THE frozen north is killing cold,
But warm to fortune's frown compared ;
For love himself is won by gold,
Nay life by precious gold ensnared :
Then blow, blow, blow, thou felon blast,
Till Nature's clay-built mansions are o'ercast,
Her babies drown'd!
While the grim sisters whirl the wheel so fast,
Round, and round, and round,
That the threads of mortality snap in the middle,
And being's sad riddle,
By sages confounded,
With time is expounded,
Then left for pastime to his offspring death!
They tell us being is but breath ;
Then thus I puff my soul away ;-
Or, I can chain it in a cobweb wreath,
And bid the fickle captive stay.
Alas! it will not stop, it flies so fast,
'Tis at Heav'n's gaol, ere half a thought is past."
As close by the grated window's twilight pane
Darkling I past, with melancholy gaze,
Frantic by fits, the maniac reason'd thus,
And ever, as he eyed his moving shade,
He sigh'd, he started—“ Aye, this is my friend,
My mild, my melting, false, perfidious friend;
See, how he flies me in my evil hour,
But courts the sunshine."-Still he followed close
The visionary man, which shifting still,
Ilis parley baffied, till at length enraged,
With blood-shot eyes, grim smiles, and quiv'ring lip,
A rusted key he seized, then smote the wall;
""Tis done," (he cry'd) and wildly laughed aloud;}
"And now for justice to my injured self,"
He said; and brandishing the massy weight,
Deep in his forehead plunged
OF him, whom science once held dear,
And fancy seem'd to mark her own,
(Reflection, spare the anguish'd tear !)
Ah! little, now, is heard or known.
Immerst in silent, hopeless woe,
To prudence lost, to pleasure cold,
Can the mute page my passion show?
Can words my bleeding breast unfold?
Then, dear invisible, forbear
To wake one spark of former pride,
Nor the deep wounds of sorrow tear,
That feeling would for ever hide!
|