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And weeping woe, and disappointment keep,
And self-consuming spleen.
Know the thought-thron'd mind to please,
To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but 'wildering raptures law,
The captivated soul.
His melancholy moan.
Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,
To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. Thou gav'st to him, with treble force to feel,
The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel,
His high indignant pride.
That Genius visits not your lowly shed;
Distract his hapless head! 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.
For what does thus he waste life's fleetiog breath? 'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil,
"Tis for untimely death. Lo! where 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 rây.
By him, the youth, who smil'd at death,
Will I thy pangs proclaim ;
And far resounding fame.
And thou, at thy flash'd car, dost nations draw,
Corroding anguish, soul-subduing pain,
A melancholy train.
And leaves thee all forlorn ;
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 outbrave, To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in
FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.
1. MILD orb who floatest through the realm of night,
A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild; Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguild.
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,
Nocturnal study's still retreat,
And through my lofty casement weaves,
An intermingled beam.
This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame ;
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 kivdred mourner, in my breast,
And breathe the soul of peace ;
For thou hast bid it cease.
Oh! many a year has pass'd away,
infant reed; When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, Those bappy moments now no more,
When on the lake's damp marge I lay,
And mark'd the northern meteor's dance ;
Twin sisters faintly now ye deign,
To chase superior pain.
And art thou fled, thou welcome orb,
So swiftly pleasure flies ;
The beam of ardour dies.
Thou sinkest into rest ;