II. 1.
But ah! a few there be whoin griefs devour,

And weeping woe, and disappointment keep,
Repining penury, and sorrow sour,

And self-consuming spleen.
And these are Genius' favourites: these

Know the thought-thron'd mind to please,
And from her fleshy seat to draw

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but 'wildering raptures law,

The captivated soul.

III. I.
Genius, from thy starry throne,
High above the burning zone,
In radiant robe of light array'd,
Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,

His melancholy moan.
He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days,
Pangs that his sensibility uprouse

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.

I. 2.
Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life,

That Genius visits not your lowly shed;
For ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife,

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.

II. 2.
And oh! for what consumes his watchful oil ?

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.

III. 2.
By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame,
By gentle Otway's magic name,

By him, the youth, who smil'd at death,
And rashly dar'd to stop his vital breath,

Will I thy pangs proclaim ;
For still to misery closely thou’rt allied,
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side,

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 awe,

And thou, at thy flash'd 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 deriding state ;
Thee, chill Adversity will still attend,
Before whose face flies fast the summer's 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 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,
It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,

And through my lofty casement weaves,
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,

An intermingled beam.

II.
These feverish dews that on my temples hang,

This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame ;
These the dread signs of many a secret pang,

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,
Soothe these discordant tones to rest,

And breathe the soul of peace ;
Mild visitor, I feel thee here,
It is not pain that brings this tear,

For thou hast bid it cease.

Oh! many a year has pass'd away,
Since I beneath thy fairy ray,
Attun'd my

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 ;
Bland Hope and Fancy ye were there,
To inspirate my trance.

Twin sisters faintly now ye deign,
Your magic sweets on me to shed,
In vain your powers are now essay'd,

To chase superior pain.

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb,

So swiftly pleasure flies ;
So to mankind in darkness lost,

The beam of ardour dies.
Wan Moon thy nightly task is done,
And now encurtain’d in the main,

Thou sinkest into rest ;
But I, in vain, on thorny bed,
Shall woo the god of soft repose-

*