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Who, in the wintry wolds and floods,
EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.
BLOOMFIELD, thy happy-omen'd name
Season of general rest, whose solemu still
But speaks to philosophic souls delight,
I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
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:
Her hollow screams each dreary pause between),
Till in the lonely tower he spies the light
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And raise my mournful eye to heaven, and weep.
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
Hence, away, vindictive Thought!
Thy pictures are of pain ;
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep,
Is this thy new delight?
'Tis thine to die,
While 'o'er the eye The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. (pillow flee.
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 thou of pleasure born?
With all thy smiles,
[files. Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway deThe drowsy night-watch has forgot
To call the solemn hour;
And restless lie,
eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.
GENIUS: AN ODE.
I. 1. Many there be, who, through the vale of life,
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
Awakes them not to woe.
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
And self-consuming Spleen.
Know the thought-throned mind to please,
To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but ’wildering Rapture's law,
The captivated soul. III. 1.
Genius, from thy starry throne,
High above the burning zone,
His melancholy moan.
Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden
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
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;
At solemn midnight, when the peasant
His mournful vigils keeps. II. 2. And, oh! for what consumes his watchful oil?
For what does thus he waste life's fleeting
'Tis for untimely death.
Despair depicted in his eyes,
He sees the grave wide-yawning for its
And cheer the expiring ray.
By gentle Otway's magic name,
Will I thy pangs proclaim;
And far-resounding Fame.
And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw,
Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky-
A melancholy train.