There, sad and cheerless near the fire,
I gloomy sat, to grief resign'd;
And while down stole the silent tear,
These thoughts slow wander'd o'er my mind.
Alas!-my distant friend, I fear—
Why these woe-bodings at my heart?
What sound still tinkles in my ear,
Which mirth nor pleasure can divert?
I spoke, I sigh'd, and raised my head-
I sigh'd, I groan'd, yet knew not why,
When, strange! a voice soft breathed out "dead!"
I heard, and changed to palest clay.
Prostrate I fell, lull'd in a faint,
Till by degrees life on me broke;
I waked to misery-rose pale, spent,
And thus in deep distraction spoke.
"And art thou gone, oh! hapless youth;
And shall these eyes ne'er view thee more? Thou, in whose glowing breast dwelt truth, Art thou for ever from me tore?
Ye dreary walls, list to my doom,
Bear witness to my heart-felt wail,
And wrap you with a darker gloom,
While I relate the mournful tale.
For oh! insatiate cruel Death,
Hath torn from me my dearest friend;
Then farewell, world, and hated breath,
I shall not long delay behind.
Ah, see! the breathless corse there lies,
White stretch'd along-distracting sight!
How changed that face! how sunk those eyes!
For ever sunk in endless night!
Pale is the face that wont to smile,
Adorn'd with charms of native red;
Cold, cold that breast, where envious Guile
Ne'er found a shelter for her head.
Oh! barbarous Death, relentless power!
How hast thou made my bosom bleed?
In one tremendous, awful hour,
Thou'st made me wretched-poor indeed.
Ye once delightful scenes, adieu!
Where first I drew my infant breath, Since the sole friend this breast ere knew, Closed are his eyes, and sunk in death.
Farewell, ye banks with willows tipt,
Where oft beneath the summer beam,
'Midst flowery grass we've fondly stript,
And plunged beneath the opening stream.
No more, while Winter rules the sky,
And firms pure Cartha's icy face,
Shall he on skates, swift bounding fly,
While I pursue the mazy chase.
No more, alas! we'll nightly walk
Beneath the silent, silver moon;
Or pass the rapturing hours in talk,
In yonder bower, retired from noon.
How will that beauteous maid bewail,
* Whose charms first caught his youthful heart? Who often heard his tender tale,
And blushing, eased his wounding smart.
No more with thee he'll spend the night,
Where Cynthia gleams athwart the grove;
Nor seize thy hand in dear delight,
And tell enchanting tales of love.
Alas! he's bid a long adieu;
In vain we weep, in vain repine;
Ne'er shalt thou meet a swain so true,
Ne'er shall I find a friend so kind.
How long we've been companions dear,
How loved-nor tongue nor words can tell;
But hark!-alas! methinks I hear
Some solemn, dreary warning knell.
Yes I will come—thou beckoning ghost ;
I hear thy kind, thy awful call:
One green-grass sod shall wrap our dust,
And some sweet Muse weep o'er our fall.
CONTENT'S the choicest bliss we can
E'er reach to in this mortal span:
'Tis not in grandeur, power or state,
The lordly dome or cottage neat,
Still to be found-but chief she dwells
In that calm breast that Care repels;
With dauntless heart braves frowning Fate,
Nor e'er concludes that Hope's too late;
Aspires no higher than his sphere,
Nor harbours discontentment there.
Pale Discontent! the baneful sting,
From whence unnumber'd miseries spring;
Ambition gazing to the skies,
And ever planning schemes to rise,
Till to Power's dizzy peak up-whirl'd,
Fate shakes the base and down he's hurl'd.
Heart-wringing cares that still torment,
All flow from murmuring Discontent.
Some forward look at coming ills,
And die long ere they thwart their wills;
Others in real misery groan,
And think Heaven frowns on them alone;
While many a one, mean, pining elves,
Raise airy horrors to themselves.
Happy the man whose views ne'er stretch
To things beyond his honest reach;
Who, whether doom'd to hall or cot,
Ne'er curses Fate or mourns his lot;
If rich-despises not the poor,
Nor drives them harshly from his door;
If low in fortune-ne'er envies
The wealthy's pomp that meets his eyes;
For oft within their bosom reigns
A raving group of nameless pains,
That ceaseless torture, growl and fret;
And when they fall, the ruin's great;
Sinking, they eye the humble clown,
Grasp at a spade, and spurn a crown.
One sunny evening, calm and fair,
A Fly that wing'd the fragrant air,
In wheeling past a village lane,
By chance popt through a broken pane.
A scene that ne'er had met his sight,
He now surveys with doubtful flight;
Around the room, with airy drone,
His curious search had circling gone.
He views its bounds, and yet more bold,
Pries o'er the walls, damp, moulded, cold;
Then, pertly sneering, thus began:
How wretched are th' abodes of man!
How rank the smell-whoe'er comes near it,
May guess the owner's taste and spirit."
This said, and roving round, he spies
An object, that engag'd his eyes.
Within a glass a moving being,
Sluggish and black; which Bizzon seeing,
Perch'd on the bottle-gazed with mock,
And thus the foppish flutterer spoke:
"And what art thou, poor grov'lling creature,
Of such detested hue and feature;
That sunk, amid that putrid fluid,
So closely crammed, so irksome bowed,
Scarce seems to move through scanty water?
An ugly hulk of lifeless matter;
Shame! thus to loll, while summer hours
Invite thee forth, through blooming flowers
Enrapt to rove; or, where the field
Of blossom'd beans their fragrance yield;
Or wanton in the noontide beam;
Or skim along the glitt'ring stream
With boundless sweep-but thou, lone wretch!
Must here remain, till death shall fetch
Thee from this hold, with furious ire,
And tread thy carcase in the mire.
A life like this what beast could dree,
"Twere death and worse to ought but thee."
Thus Bizzon spoke, when from her font
The Leech uprear'd her dark-brown front,
And thus replied, in solemn mood:
"Know, vainest of thy useless brood!
Thou hast my scorn-I too might rail,
But listen to my humble tale:
“Ne'er make, by outward signs, thy guess,
Nor think, though poor, my peace is less.
Composed I live, and from my bower
Survey the bustling world, secure.
Or when some stubborn rank disease
Calls for my aid, to give men ease,
I glad obey, and suck the ill,
In my own breast, to save them still
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