II. 1. But ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, And self-consuming spleen. And these are Genius' favourites: these To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, III. 1. Genius, from thy starry throne, In radiant robe of light array'd, Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, 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, 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 fleeting 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 ray. III. 2. By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, By gentle Otway's magic name, By him, the youth, who smil'd at death, For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, 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, 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. I. MILD orb who floatest through the realm of night, Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguil'd. It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, II. These feverish dews that on my temples hang, 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, Come kindred mourner, in my breast, And breathe the soul of peace; Mild visitor, I feel thee here, It is not pain that brings this tear, 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 happy moments now no more, When on the lake's damp marge I lay, Twin sisters faintly now ye deign, And art thou fled, thou welcome orb, So to mankind in darkness lost, The beam of ardour dies. Wan Moon thy nightly task is done, Thou sinkest into rest; But I, in vain, on thorny bed, repose |