But if thou comest a sibyl's leaf, Such as did erst high truths declare, To tell me soon shall end my grief, I bless the omen that you bear: For sure you tell me that my woe Then come, thou messenger of peace! To seek in vain for nature's rest. W. ROBERTS. ELEGIAC STANZAS ON MYSELF. To Pleasure's wiles an easy prey Through Folly's heedless maze has led, Where tall grass twines the pointed stone, Each gentlest balm of feeling had, To soothe all sorrow but his own. For he, by tuneful Fancy rear'd Oh! place his dear harp by his side (His harp, alas! his only hoard); The fairy breeze at eventide Will trembling kiss each weeping chord. When misty twilight stream'd around, With speckled wing, the skies explore; Then, stranger, be his foibles lost; At such small foibles Virtue smiled: Few was their number, large their cost, For he was Nature's orphan child. The graceful drop of pity spare (To him the bright drop once belong'd), Well, well his doom deserves thy care; Much, much he suffer'd, much was wrong'd. When taught by life its pangs to know, Ah! as thou roam'st the checker'd gloom, Bid the sweet nightbird's numbers flow, And the last sunbeam light his tomb. DERMODY. ON THE MISFORTUNES OF AN INGENUOUS MIND. ALAS! too fatally inspired, Why heaves this heart with purest aim, For aught the sage's soul admired, Or raptured minstrel gave to fame? Why throbs within this lone recess Each finer pulse of general zeal, That mourns because it cannot bless The wants 'tis fated still to feel? Did Fortune blast what Nature gave, Averse, with dark malignant glare? Did Sorrow mark the victim's grave, When graced with more than mortals' share? Ah, cruel gift! ah, baneful prize! By too bewitching Fancy led, To bid Hope's fairest visions rise, Then find those fairest visions fled; To pause on the deserted gloom, By their lost hues more hideous made; While, only left, an early tomb Gleams sudden through the awful shade! Less painful far, were dull Despair Or snatch a fading glimpse of heaven; Less injured the insensate breast That ne'er one ardent pang can know, That deems each social call a jest, And slumbers o'er the tale of woe. Like some poor pilgrim, faint and frail, Then Disappointment meet-and die. Whose bosom, Sympathy's sole throne, DERMODY. THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER. THE frozen streets in moonshine glitter, Their weight my limbs no more can bear: But no one soothes the orphan's anguish, And no one heeds the orphan's prayer. VOL. IV. N Hark! hark! for surely footsteps near me Too well these wasted limbs declare Then, stranger, grant the orphan's prayer. He's gone! No mercy man will show me; But thou, proud man, the beggar scorning, Thou hadst not scorn'd the orphan's prayer. M. G.. LEWIS. |