THE SEASONS OF SORROW.
When hope, when health, when youth prevail,
How fleet the dancing moments pass;
Ere grief and care the heart assail,
At ebb the sands of Time’s frail glass!
Once, brightly rose my morning ray,
My noon of life serenely shone;
Yet clouds on clouds o’ercast the day,
Ere yet declin’d the setting sun.
Did gentle zephyrs waft the Spring,
How bright each landscape glow’d around!
What sweets could Summer seasons bring,
What beauties Autumn, harvest crown’d!
Not hoary Winter’s dreary form,
Shivering in snowy mantle dress’d,
Could freeze my joys, or raise a storm
To shake the calmness of my breast:
For then my bliss a Brother shar’d,
A Friend his comforts could impart;
If Fortune’s frowns that bliss impair’d,
A gentle Mistress sooth’d my heart.
With these, whilst every care was charm’d,
The choicest gifts of Heaven combin’d,
Higeia’s power my bosom warm’d,
And love spread sunshine o’er my mind.
In yonder vale Philander lies,
Embalm’d with friendship’s choicest tear;
Where those o’er-arching shades arise,
I sorrow’d o’er a brother’s bier.
Yet stream’d my eyes, yet bled each wound,
When Fate another arrow sped;
A timeless grave my Delia found,
My love was number’d with the dead!
My love!—a dearer name she own’d,
Pattern of constancy end truth!
Her image, in my heart enthron’d,
The dear-priz’d consort of my youth!
That heart thus rent—What yet remains,
While still our short-liv’d pleasures die?
While grief in mournful notes complains,
And sorrow heaves the heart-felt sigh?
The glorious sun puts on in vain
His richest robes, and gilds the day;
Sad melancholy’s sable reign,
Prevailing, blots his brightest ray.
With roses crown’d, the blushing spring
To every new-born joy invites;
Delia more balmy sweets could bring,
For her I pine amidst delights.
When Summer radiance paints the skies,
Or Autumn swells the lusty year;
Still flow my tears, still heave my sighs,
Philander—Delia—is not here!
When Winter the gay train employs,
In scenes of social mirth to blend;
Can I forget who shar’d those joys,
My Brother, Mistress, and my Friend?
Unheeded still the seasons roll,
Unmov’d each various change I see;
Can they relieve my troubled soul,
Or smile upon a wretch like me?
Ah, no! To sorrow still a prey,
My few remaining years I waste;
Count by my sighs each passing day,
And wish that each may be my last.
The torch funereal, cypress gloom,
Are now familiar to my sight;
These eyes, long gazing on the tomb,
Now sicken at the morning light,
Does fancy make the shapes well known,
That sudden flit, and disappear?
Does fancy form the solemn tone
Which vibrates on my aching ear?
Howe’er it be---aloud they call---
To quit in haste this mortal coil,
And rise above the earthly ball,
The scene of sorrow, pain, and toil.
Philander, Dorus, Delia bless’d!
I hear the voice, and haste away,
To scenes where Sorrow’s children rest,
In realms of never-ending day.
But Virtue, from the seats on high
Descended, shall assert her reign;
Though worlds in mighty ruin lie,
And still her sacred sway maintain.
Then shall her sons in every age,
In every clime, with lustre rise;
And quit, at once, this mortal stage,
For scenes immortal in the skies.