Then all I want, (O, do thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

DESPONDENCY.

AN ODE.

I.

OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,

A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh;
✪ life, thou art a galling load,

A long, 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 denied,
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 saine.
You, bustling and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,
Find ev'ry prospect vain.

How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,

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

Or, haply, to his evening 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.

IV.

Then 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!

V.

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!

ALL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word

The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, wo-delighted train,

The ministers of grief and pain,

A sullen welcome, all!

With stern, resolv'd, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart;

For one has cut my dearest tue,
And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring and pouring,
The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning and blackning
Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid,
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day;

My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mould'ring in the clay?

No fear more, no tear more,
To strain my lifeless face;
Enclasped and grasped

Within thy cold embrace'

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On ev'ry blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea;

Now Phœbus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;

The mavis wild, wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest;

In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae,
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:

The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove the sweets amang;

But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonie France,
Where happy I hae been;

Fu' lightly raise I in the morn,
As blithe lay down at e'en;

And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,
And monie a traitor there;

Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,

My sister and my fae,

Grim Vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword