And hark, how merrily, from distant tow'r, - Melting in faintest music. They bespeak A day of jubilee, and oft they bear Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, Oh, Ignorance, Thou art fall'n man's best friend! With thee he speeds 10 In frigid apathy along his way, Burn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steel E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, Which sense refin'd affords-Ev'n now my heart Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, Such is life: The distant prospect always seems more fair, ODE, WRITTEN ON WHIT MONDAY. HARK, how the merry bells ring jocund round, And now they die upon the veering breeze; Anon they thunder loud Full on the musing ear. Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore An ancient holiday. And lo! the rural revels are begun, And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, Resounds the voice of Mirth. Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate, That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they, Who now are in their graves, Kept up the Whitsun dance. And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still A cold and cheerless sleep. TA Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare A transient visitor? Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power, That warns ye to your graves. I to the woodland solitude will bend My lonesome way-where Mirth's obstreperous shout Shall not intrude to break The meditative hour. There will I ponder on the state of man, To sad Reflection's shrine; And I will cast my fond eye far beyond Shall rock above the sod, 2 Where I shall sleep in peace. CANZONET. 1. MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, Cold the rain beats on thy breast: Why should Horror's voice astound thee? Death can bid the wretched rest! All under the tree Thy bed may be, And thou mayst slumber peacefully. 2. Maiden! once gay pleasure knew thee; Now thy cheeks are pale and deep: Love has been a felon to thee; Yet, poor maiden, do not weep: There's rest for thee All under the tree, COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR. SOME to Aonian lyres of silver sound |