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Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind,

Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin'd,

And count the silent moments as they pass : The winged moments, whose unstaying speed

No art can stop, or in their course arrest; Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,

And lay me down in peace with them that rest. Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate;

And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true : Led by pale gliosts, I enter Death's dark gate,

And bid the realms of light and life adieu. I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;

I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,

Which mortals visit, and return no more. Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains !

Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigas,

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the shut of eve,

When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes ; The world and all its busy follies leave,

And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,

When death shall shut these weary aching eyes; Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,

Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.

THOMAS WARTON.

THE SUICIDE.

BE
ENEATH the beech, whose branches bare,

Smit with the lightning's ivid glare,
O'erhang the craggy road,
And whistle hollow as the wave;

Within'a solitary grave,
A Slayer of himself holds his accurs'd abode.

Lour'd the grini morn, in murky dies
Damp mists involv'd the scowling skies,

And dimm'd the struggling day ;
As by the brook, that lingering laves

Yon rush-grown moor with sable waves, Full of the dark resolve he took his sullen way.

I mark'd his desultory pace,
His gestures strange, and varying face,

With many a mutter'd sound;
And ah ! too late aghast I view'd
The reeking blade, the hand embrued ;
He fell, and groaning grasp'd in agony the ground.

Full man a melancholy night
He watch'd the slow return of light;

And sought the powers of sleep,
To spread a momentary calm

O’er his sad couch, and in the balm Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.

Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
He wore his endless poons alone,

Amid the autumnal wood :
Oft was he wont, in hasty fit,

Abrupt the social board to quit, And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling

flood.

Beckoning the wretch to torments new,
Despair, for ever in his view,

A spectre pale, appear'd;
While, as the shades of eve arose,

And brought the day's unwelcome close,
More horrible and huge her giant-shape she rear'd.

Is this,' mistaken Scorn will cry,
• Is this the youth whose genius high

Could build the genuine rhyme?'
Whose bosom mild the favouring Muse

Had stor'd with all her ample views,
Parent of fairest deeds, and purposes sublime.

Ah ! from the Muse that bosom mild
By treacherous magic was beguil'd,

To strike the deathful blow :
She fill'd his soft ingenuous mind
With many a feeling too refin'd,
And rous'd to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of woe.

Though doom'd hard penury to prove,
And the sharp stings of hopeless loye :

To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew,

While misery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.

Then wish not o'er his earthly tomb
The baleful nightshade's lurid bloom

To drop its deadly dew :
Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn,

That rudely biuds his turf forlorn,
With Spring's green-swelling buds to vegetate anew.

What though no marble-piled bust
Adorn his desolated dust,

With speaking sculpture wrought?
Pity shall woo the weeping Nine,

To build a visionary shrine, Hung with ynfading flowers, from fairy regions

brought.

What though refus'd each chaunted rite?
Here viewless mourners shall delight

To touch the shadowy shell:
And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom

Of Laura, lost in early bloom,
In many a pensive pause shall seem to ring his knell.

To soothe a lone, unhallow'd shade,
This votive dirge sad duty paid,

Within an ivied nook :
Sudden the half-sunk orb of day

More radiant shot its parting ray,
And thus a cherub-voice my charm's attention took:

• Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise;
Nor thus for guilt in specious lays

The wreath of glory twine:
In vain with hues of gorgeous glow

Gay Fancy gives her vest to flow,
Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds confine.

*Just Heaven, man's fortitude to prove, Permits through life at large to rove

The tribes of hell-born Woe:
Yet the same power that wisely sends
Life's fiercest ills, indulgent lends
Religion's golden shield to break the embattled foe.

· Her aid divine had lull'd to rest
Yon foul self-murderer's throbbing breast,

And stay'd the rising storm :
Had bade the sun of hope appear
To gild his darken'd hemisphere,
And give the wonted bloom to nature's blasted form.

• Vain man! 'tis Heaven's prerogative
To take, what first it deiga'd to give,

Thy tributary breath :
In awful expectation plac'd,

Await thy doom, nor impious haste
To pluck from God's right hand his instruments of

death.

THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY. 1745.

-Præcipe lugubres
Cantus, Melpomene ! -

MOTHER of musings, Contemplation sage,

Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock Of Teneriff ; ’mid the tempestuous night, On which, in calmest meditation held, Thou hear'st with howling winds the beating rain And drifting hail descend; or if the skies Unclouded shine, and through the blue serene Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car, Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault Raptur'd thou sitt'st, while murmurs indistinct Of distant billows soothe thy pensive ear With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest, There oft thou listen'st to the wild uproar Of fleets encountering, that in whispers low Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell'st Remote from man, conversing with the spheres ! O lead me, queen sublime, to solémn glooms Congenial with my soul; to cheerless shades, To ruin'd seats, to twilight cells and bow'rs, Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse, Her favourite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the dance In sportive round, while from their hands they show'r Ambrosial blooms and flowers, no longer charm; Tempé, no more I court thy balmy breeze, Adieu, green vales ! ye broider'd meads, adieu!

Beneath yon ruin'd abbey's moss-grown piles Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, Where through some western window the pale moon Pours her long-levell’d rule of streaming light; While sullen sacred silence reigns around, Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his

bow'r

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