THE DAY AFTER IT HAD BEEN GIVEN BY MISS PONSONBY.
Soft blushing flow'r! my bosom grieves,
To view thy sadly drooping leaves:
For, while their tender tints decay,
The rose of Fancy fades away!
As pilgrims, who, with zealous care,
Some little treasur'd relic bear,
To re-assure the doubtful mind,
When pausing memory looks behind;
I, from a more enlighten'd shrine,
Had made this sweet memento mine:
But, lo! its fainting head reclines;
It folds the pallid leaf, and pines,
As mourning the unhappy doom,
Which tears it from so sweet a home!
July 22, 1799.
L'HOMME DE L'ENNUI.
Forlornly I wander, forlornly I sigh,
And droop my head sadly, I cannot tell why:
When the first breeze of morning blows fresh in my face,
As the wild-waving walks of our woodlands I trace,
Reviv'd for the moment I look all around,
But my eyes soon grow languid, and fix on the ground.
I have yet no misfortune to rob me of rest,
No love discomposes the peace of my breast;
Ambition ne'er enter'd the verge of my thought,
Nor by honours, by wealth, nor by power am I caught;
Those phantoms of folly disturb not my ease,
Yet Time is a tortoise, and Life a disease.
With the blessings of youth and of health on my side,
A temper untainted by envy or pride;
No guilt to corrode, and no foes to molest;
There are many who tell me my station is blest.
This I cannot dispute; yet without knowing why—
I feel that my bosom is big with a sigh.
Oh! why do I see that all knowledge is vain;
That Science finds Error still keep in her train;
That Imposture or Darkness, with Doubt and Surmise,
Will mislead, will perplex, and then baffle the wise,
Who often, when labours have shorten'd their span,
Declare—not to know—is the province of man?
In life, as in learning, our views are confin'd,
Our discernment too weak to discover the mind,
Which, subdued and irresolute, keeps out of sight;
Or if, for a moment, her presence delight,
Our air is too gross for the stranger to stay;
And, back to her prison she hurries away!
If my own narrow precincts I seek to explore,
My wishes how vain, my attainments how poor!
Tenacious of virtue, with caution I move;
I correct, and I wrestle, but cannot approve;
Till, bewilder'd and faint, I would yield up the rein,
But I dare not in peace with my errors remain!
With zeal all awake in the cause of a friend,
With warmth unrepress'd by my fear to offend,
With sympathy active in hope or distress,
How keen and how anxious I cannot express,
I shrink, lest an eye should my feelings behold,
And my heart seems insensible, selfish and cold.
I strive to be gay, but my efforts are weak,
And, sick of existence, for pleasure I seek;
I mix with the empty, the loud, and the vain,
Partake of their folly, and double my pain.
In others I meet with depression and strife;
Oh! where shall I seek for the music of life?
THE GRANDFATHER'S DEPARTURE.
The Old Man press'd Palemon's hand;
To Lucy nodded with a smile;
Kiss'd all the little ones around;
Then clos'd the gate, and paus'd awhile.
"When shall I come again!" he thought,
Ere yet the journey had begun;
It was a tedious length of way,
But he beheld an only son.
And dearly did he love to take
A rosy grandchild on his knee;
To part his shining locks, and say,
"Just such another boy was he!"
And never felt he greater pride,
And never did he look so gay,
As when the little urchins strove
To make him partner in their play.
But when, in some more gentle mood,
They silent hung upon his arm,
Or nestled close at ev'ning pray'r,
The old man felt a softer charm;
And upward rais'd his closing eye,
Whence slow effus'd a grateful tear,
As if his senses own'd a joy,
Too holy for endurance here.
No heart e'er pray'd so fervently,
Unprompted by an earthly zeal,
None ever knew such tenderness,
That did not true devotion feel.
As with the pure, uncolour'd flame,
The violet's richest blues unite,
Do our affections soar to heav'n,
And rarify and beam with light.