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With woe I nightly vigils keep,
Beneath thy wan unwarming beam;
And mourn in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream.


I joyless view thy rays adorn
The faintly-marked distant hill:
I joyless view thy trembling horn,
Reflected in the gurgling rill :
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!
Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill
For ever bar returning peace!


No idly-feign'd poetic pains,

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim;
No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains;
No fabled tortures, quaint and tame :
The plighted faith; the mutual flame;
The oft-attested pow'rs above;
The promis'd father's tender name;
These were the pledges of my love!


Encircled in her clasping arms,

How have the raptur'd moments flown! How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and her's alone! And must I think it! is she gone,

My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost?


Oh! can she bear so base a heart,
So lost to honour, lost to truth,

As from the fondest lover part,
The plighted husband of her youth!

Alas! life's path may be unsmooth!

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, Her sorrows share, and make them less?


Ye winged hours that o'er us past,
Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,
Your dear remembrance in my breast,

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd.
That breast how dreary now, and void,
For her too scanty once of room!
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,
And not a wish to gild the gloom!


The morn that warns th' approaching day,
Awakes me up to toil and woe:
I see the hours in long array,

That I must suffer, lingering, slow.
Full many a pang, and many a throe,
Keen Recollection's direful train,
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low,
Shall kiss the distant, western main.


And when my nightly couch I try,
Sore-harass'd out with care and grief,
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,
Keep watchings with the nightly thief:
Or if I slumber, Fancy, chief,

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright:
Ev'n day all-bitter brings relief,

From such a horror-breathing night.


O! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse, Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway! Oft has thy silent-marking glance

Observ'à us fondly-wand'ring, stray!

The time, unheeded, sped away,

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray

To mark the mutual kindling eye.

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Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes, never, never, to return!
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,

Again I feel, again I burn!
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,
Life's weary vale I'll wander thro';
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn
A faithless woman's broken vow.




Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care,

A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh:
O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!
Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro',

Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;

My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!


Happy, ye sons of busy life,

Who, equal to the bustling strife,


No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same,
You bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I listless, yet restless,
Find every prospect vain,


How blest the solitary's lot,

Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling root,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream.

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to heav'n on high,

As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.


Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,

And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,

Which I too keenly taste,

The solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest!

He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate !


Oh! enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves, that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage !
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim-declining age!




The wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest

And pass the heartless day.


"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast*,"

The joyless winter-day,

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul,

My griefs it seems to join,

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

* Dr. Young.

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