II. Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? 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. III. 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, Sopr❜ythee, pr'ythee plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee. IV. And, Memory, pray what art thou? Art thou of pleasure born? Does bliss untainted from thee flow? The rose that gems thy pensive brow, Is it without a thorn? With all thy smiles, And witching wiles, Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. V. The drowsy night-watch has forgot To call the solemn hour; Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep, And restless lie, With unclos'd 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, By them unheeded, carking Care, Green-ey'd Grief, and dull Despair; 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 keen, Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour, 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, 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 sooth his soul to peace, And cheer the expiring ray. III. 2. By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, By gentle Otway's magic name, 14 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, Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, Mocking thy derided 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 while the cup of affluence he quaffs Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in his grave. |