Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail; She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze: Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky, And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, Piled on the steep, her blazing faggots burn To hail the bark that never can return; And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew The world's regard, that sooths, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it err'd no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye Th' unfeeling proud one looks-and passes by; Leans o'er its humble gate, & thinks the while, Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green, Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the whileOh! that for me some home like this would smile, Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm! There should my hand no stinted boon assign To wretched hearts with sorrows such as mine!— HOPE! when I mourn, with sympathizing mind, The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see The boundless fields of rapture yet to be; |