Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name TO MIDNIGHT. SEASON of general rest, whose solemn still I sit and taste the holy calm of night. Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame, And sing the gentle honours of her name; And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng! Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: Till in the lonely tower he spies the light Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, TO THOUGHT; WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. HENCE, away, vindictive Thought! The visions through thy dark eye caught, So pr'ythee back again. I would not weep, I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep? Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? Is this thy new delight? Pale visitant, it is not thine To keep thy sentry through the mine, The dark vault of the night: "Tis thine to die, While o'er the eye The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. Go thou, and bide with him who guides His bark through lonely seas; And as, reclining on his helm, Sadly he marks the starry realm, To him thou may'st bring ease; But thou to me Art misery, [pillow flee. So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my And, Memory, pray what art thou? Art thou of pleasure born? Does bliss untainted from thee flow? Is it without a thorn? With all thy smiles, And witching wiles, [files. Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway de The drowsy night-watch has forgot To call the solemn hour; And restless lie, With unclosed eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. GENIUS: AN ODE. I. I. MANY there be, who, through the vale of life, While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife By them unheeded, carking Care, Smoothly they pursue their way, With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death. II. 1. But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, And weeping Woe, and Disappointment Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour, III. 1. And self-consuming Spleen. [keen, And these are Genius' favourites: these Know the thought-throned mind to please, And from her fleshy seat to draw To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, 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 Pangs that his sensibility uprouse [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 I. 2. Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 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; [sleeps, At solemn midnight, when the peasant II. 2. And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil? III. 2. breath? 'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 'Tis for untimely death. Lo! where dejected pale he lies, He feels the vital flame decrease, [prey, He sees the grave wide-yawning for its By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, By him, the youth, who smiled 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. |