THE head that oft this PILLOW press'd,
That aching head, is gone to rest;
Its little pleasures now no more,
And all its mighty sorrows o'er,
For ever, in the worm's dark bed,
For ever sleeps that humble head!
MY FRIEND was young, the world was new ; The world was false, MY FRIEND was true; Lowly his lot, his birth obscure,
His fortune hard, MY FRIEND was poor;
To wisdom he had no pretence,
A child of suffering, not of sense;
For NATURE never did impart
A weaker or a warmer heart.
His fervent soul, a soul of flame,
Consumed its frail terrestrial frame;
That fire from Heaven so fiercely burn'd,
That whence it came it soon return'd:
And yet, O PILLOW! yet to me,
My gentle FRIEND survives in thee;
In thee, the partner of his bed,
In thee, the widow of the dead!
On HELICON's inspiring brink,
Ere yet MY FRIEND had learn'd to think,
Once as he pass'd the careless day
Among the whispering reeds at play,
The MUSE OF SORROW wander'd by ;
Her pensive beauty fix'd his eye;
With sweet astonishment he smiled;
The Gipsey saw-she stole the child;
And soft on her ambrosial breast
Sang the delighted babe to rest ;
Convey'd him to her inmost grove,
And loved him with a Mother's love.
Awaking from his rosy nap,
And gayly sporting on her lap,
His wanton fingers o'er her lyre
Twinkled like electric fire:
Quick and quicker as they flew,
Sweet and sweeter tones they drew ;
Now a bolder hand he flings,
And dives among the deepest strings ;
Then forth the music brake like thunder;
Back he started, wild with wonder !
The MUSE OF SORROW wept for joy,
And clasp'd and kiss'd her chosen boy.
Ah! then no more his smiling hours Were spent in Childhood's Eden-bowers; The fall from Infant-innocence,
The fall to knowledge drives us thence :
→ Knowledge! worthless at the price,
Bought with the loss of PARADISE !
As happy ignorance declined,
And reason rose upon his mind,
Romantic hopes and fond desires
(Sparks of the soul's immortal fires !)
Kindled within his breast the rage
To breathe through every future age,
To clasp the flitting shade of fame,
To build an everlasting name,
O'erleap the narrow vulgar span,
And live beyond the life of man !
Then NATURE's charms his heart possess'd, And NATURE'S glory fill'd his breast: The sweet Spring-morning's infant rays, Meridian Summer's youthful blaze, Maturer Autumn's evening mild, And hoary Winter's midnight wild, Awoke his eye, inspired his tongue; For every scene he loved, he sung. Rude were his songs, and simple truth, Till Boyhood blossom'd into Youth ; Then nobler themes his fancy fired, To bolder flights his soul aspired; And as the new-moon's opening eye Broadens and brightens through the sky, From the dim streak of western light To the full orb that rules the night;
Thus, gathering lustre in its race,
And shining through unbounded space,
From earth to Heaven his GENIUS soar'd,
Time and eternity explored,
And hail'd, where'er its footsteps trod,
In NATURE's temple, NATURE'S GOD :
Or pierced the human breast to scan
The hidden majesty of Man ;
Man's hidden weakness too descried,
His glory, grandeur, meanness, pride;
Pursued along their erring course,
The streams of passion to their source;
Or in the mind's creation sought
New stars of fancy, worlds of thought!
-Yet still through all his strains would flow
A tone of uncomplaining woe,
Kind as the tear in Pity's eye,
Soft as the slumbering Infant's sigh,
So sweetly, exquisitely wild,
It spake the MUSE OF SORROW's child.
O PILLOW! then, when light withdrew,
To thee the fond enthusiast flew ;
On thee, in pensive mood reclined,
He pour'd his contemplative mind,
Till o'er his eyes, with mild controul,
Sleep like a soft enchantment stole,
Charm'd into life his airy schemes,
And realized his waking dreams.
Soon from those waking dreams he woke, The fairy spell of fancy broke;
In vain he breathed a soul of fire
Through every chord that strung his lyre.
No friendly echo cheer'd his tongue,
Amidst the wilderness he sung;
Louder and bolder bards were crown'd,
Whose dissonance his music drown'd ;
The public ear, the public voice,
Despised his song, denied his choice,
Denied a name, a life in death,
Denied-a bubble and a breath.
Stript of his fondest, dearest claim,
And disinherited of fame,
To thee, O PILLOW! thee alone,
He made his silent anguish known ;
His haughty spirit scorn'd the blow
That laid his high ambition low;
But ah! his looks assumed in vain
A cold ineffable disdain,
While deep he cherish'd in his breast
The scorpion that consumed his rest.
Yet other secret griefs had he, O PILLOW! only told to thee: Say, did not hopeless love intrude On his poor bosom's solitude?
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