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.
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 when dejected pale he lies,
Despair depicted in his eyes,
He feels the vital flame decrease;
He sees the grave wide yawning for its prey,
Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace
And cheer the expiring ray.
By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,
By gentle Otway's magic name,
By him, the youth who smiled at death,
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath,
Will I thy pangs proclaim :
For still to misery closely thouʼrt allied,
Though goodly pageants glitter by thy sides
And far resounding fame.
What though to thee the dazzled millions bow. And to thy posthumous merit bend them low; Though unto thee, the monarch looks with awę, And thou at thy flashed car dost nations draw; Yet ah! unseen behind thee fly
Corroding anguish, soul subduing pain, And discontent that clouds the fairest sky : A melancholy train.
Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await,
Mocking thy derided state;
Thee, chill Adversity, will still attend,
Before whose face flies fast the summer friend,
And leaves thee all forlorn,
While leaden ignorance rears her head and laughs. And fat stupidity shakes his jolly sides, And while the cup of affluence he quaffs
With bee-eyed wisdom, Genius derides, Who toils and every hardship doth out-brave, To give the meed of praise when he is mouldering in the grave.
Lo at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Her silent watch the tender mother keeps :
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies
Smiles on her slumbering child, with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy
Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy,
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine;
Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be
In form and soul; but ah! more blest than he !
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,
Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past;
With many a smile my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away;
And say, when summon'd from the world and thee,
I lay my head beneath the willow tree,
Wilt thou sweet mourner, at my stone appear
And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?
Oh! wilt thou come at evening hour, to shed
The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclin'd,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love and all my wo,
Blest hospitality! the poor man's pride,
The stranger's guardian, comforter, and guide,
Whose cheering voice and sympathetic eye,
Even angels honor as they hover nigh ;
Confined (in mercy to our wandering race)
To no one country, people, age, or place;
But for the homeless and the exil'd lives,
And smiles the sweeter still the more she gives;
O if on earth one spot I e'er can claim,
One humble dwelling, even without a name,
Do thou, blest Spirit! be my partner there,
With sons of wo our little all to share ;
Beside our fire the pilgrim's looks to see,
That swim in moisture as he thinks on thee;
To hear his tales of wild woods wandering through;
His ardent blessings as he bids adieu;
Then let the selfish, hug their gold divine,
Ten thousand dearer pleasures shall be mine.
SCENE FROM CAMPBELL'S GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, And blended arms and white pavilions glow; And for the business of destruction done, Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow. There, sad spectatress of her country's wo! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclos'd, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm !
But short that contemplation, sad and short
The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu !
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,
Where friendly swords were drawn and banners flew.
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near? yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds,
Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambush'd foeman's eye, his volley speeds,
And Albert, Albert, falls: the dear old father bleeds!
And tranc'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd
Yet while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound,
These drops? Oh God! the life-blood is her own;
And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown,
Weep not, O love! she cries, to see me bleed;
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone;
Heaven's peace commisserate; for scarce I heed
These wounds;-yet thee to leave is death, is death
Clasp me a little longer, on the brink
Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart has ceas'd to beat-Oh, think,
And let it mitigate thy wo's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hopes of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!
Go, Henry, go not back when I depart;
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast
In heav'n; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?
No, I shall love thee still when death itself is past.
Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,
And thee, more lov'd than ought beneath the sun,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth,
Of one dear pledge; but shall there then be none,
In future times, no gentle little one,
To clasp thy neck, and look resembling me!
Yet seems it, e'en while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,
Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!
Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland And beautiful expression seem'd to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
Ah heart; where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.
HAPPY POWER OF LOVE AND ADVICE TO CHERISH IT.
When vexed by cares and harrassed by distress,
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread,
Let Love, consoling Love! still sweetly bless,
And his assuasive balm benignły shed:
His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose:
To love, the tender heart hath ever fled,
As on its mother's breast the infant throws
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes:
O fondly cherish then the lovely plant,
Which lenient heaven hath given thy pains to ease;
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant,
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze,
And when rude winter shall thy roses seize,
When nought thro' all thy bowers but thorns remain,
This still with undeciduous charms shall please,
Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain,
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain.
Through the hard season Love with plaintive note,
Like the kind red-breast tenderly shall sing,
Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat,
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing,
With cheerful promise of returning spring
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove.
Guard thy best treasure from the venomed sting
Of baneful peevishness; Oh! never prove
How
soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle Love!
Repentance may the storms of passion chase,
And Love, who shrunk affrighted from the blast,
May hush his just complaints in soft embrace,
And smiling wipe his tearful eye at last :
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