’Now, gliding remote,
on the verge of the sky,
’The moon, half extinguish’d, her crescent displays;
’But lately I mark’d; when majestic: on high
’She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
’Roll on, thou fair orb! and with; gladness pursue
’The path that conducts thee to splendor again—
’But man’s faded glory no change shall renew:
’Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain.
’’Tis night, and
the landscape is lovely no more;
’I mourn; but ye woodlands! I mourn not for you:
’For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
’Perfum’d with fresh fragrance, and glitt’ring with dew.
’Nor, yet, for the ravage of winter I mourn;
’Kind nature the embryo blossom will save—
’But, when shall spring visit the mould’ring urn?
‘O! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!’
’Twas thus, by the glare
of false science betray’d,
That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind;
My thoughts want to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
‘O! pity, great father of light!’ then I cry’d,
’Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee;
Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt, and from darkness, thou only canst free.’
And darkness, and doubt, are
now flying away,
No longer I roam, in conjecture forlorn,
So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden’s first bloom!
On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb,
Pity the sorrows of a poor
Whole trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
Whole days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief and heav’n will bless your store,
These tatter’d clothes my poverty bespeak,
Those hoary locks proclaim my lengthen’d years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
You house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect, drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav’d a morsel of their bread,
A pamper’d menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold:
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e’er touch’d your breast,
Your hands would not withhold