food,
    Such as the forest hoar
    To our first fathers bore,
    By us disdain’d, yet praised in hall and bower,
    But, let who will the cup of joyance pour,
    I never knew, I will not say of mirth,
    But of repose, an hour,
    When Phoebus leaves, and stars salute the earth.

    Yon shepherd, when the mighty star of day
    He sees descending to its western bed,
    And the wide Orient all with shade embrown’d,
    Takes his old crook, and from the fountain head,
    Green mead, and beechen bower, pursues his way,
    Calling, with welcome voice, his flocks around;
    Then far from human sound,
    Some desert cave he strows
    With leaves and verdant boughs,
    And lays him down, without a thought, to sleep. 
    Ah, cruel Love!—­then dost thou bid me keep
    My idle chase, the airy steps pursuing
    Of her I ever weep,
    Who flies me still, my endless toil renewing.

    E’en the rude seaman, in some cave confined,
    Pillows his head, as daylight quits the scene,
    On the hard deck, with vilest mat o’erspread;
    And when the Sun in orient wave serene
    Bathes his resplendent front, and leaves behind
    Those antique pillars of his boundless bed;
    Forgetfulness has shed
    O’er man, and beast, and flower,
    Her mild restoring power: 
    But my determined grief finds no repose;
    And every day but aggravates the woes
    Of that remorseless flood, that, ten long years,
    Flowing, yet ever flows,
    Nor know I what can check its ceaseless tears.

    MERIVALE.

      What time towards the western skies
    The sun with parting radiance flies,
    And other climes gilds with expected light,
    Some aged pilgrim dame who strays
    Alone, fatigued, through pathless ways,
    Hastens her step, and dreads the approach of night
    Then, the day’s journey o’er, she’ll steep
    Her sense awhile in grateful sleep;
    Forgetting all the pain, and peril past;
    But I, alas! find no repose,
    Each sun to me brings added woes,
    While light’s eternal orb rolls from us fast.

    When the sun’s wheels no longer glow,
    And hills their lengthen’d shadows throw,
    The hind collects his tools, and carols gay;
    Then spreads his board with frugal fare,
    Such as those homely acorns were,
    Which all revere, yet casting them away,
    Let those, who pleasure can enjoy,
    In cheerfulness their hours employ;
    While I, of all earth’s wretches most unblest,
    Whether the sun fierce darts his beams,
    Whether the moon more mildly gleams,
    Taste no delight, no momentary rest!