Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies;
From her dishevelled locks she rends the plume;
No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes,
And on her tear-stained cheek no roses bloom.
Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway;
Fame’s loudest trumpet labours with thy name;
For thee the Muse awakes her sweetest lay,
And Flattery bids for thee her altars flame.
Nor in life’s lofty bustling sphere alone,
The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil,
Sink Virtue’s sons beneath Misfortune’s frown,
While Guilt’s thrilled bosom leaps at Pleasure’s smile:
Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell,
Far, far remote, amid the lowly plain,
Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue’s cell:
Such is man’s doom; and Pity weeps in vain.
Still grief recoils—How vainly have I strove,
Thy power, O Melancholy, to withstand!
Tired I submit; but yet, O yet remove,
Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand.
Yet, for a while, let the bewildered soul
Find in society relief from woe;
O yield, a while, to Friendship’s soft controul;
Some respite, Friendship, wilt thou not bestow?
Come then, Philander! whose exalted mind
Looks down from far on all that charms the great;
For thou canst bear, unshaken and resigned,
The brightest smiles, the blackest frowns of Fate!
Come thou, whose love unlimited, sincere,
Nor faction cools, nor injury destroys;
Who lend’st to Misery’s moan a pitying ear,
And feel’st with ecstasy another’s joys:
Who know’st man’s frailty, with a favouring eye
And melting heart, behold’st a brother’s fall;
Who, unenslaved by Fashion’s narrow tye,
With manly freedom follow’st Nature’s call.
And bring thy Delia, sweetly-smiling fair,
Whose spotless soul no rankling thoughts deform;
Her gentle accents calm each throbbing care,
And harmonize the thunder of the storm.