Thou com❜st to say, that my once-vacant mind Bend o'er his staff, attentive to my voice! Hast thou not visited that pleasant place, That hath pierc'd all on which life seem'd to lean? But HOPE might whisper,-" Many a smiling day "And many a cheerful eve might yet be mine, "Ere age's autumn strew my locks with grey, "And weary to the dust my steps decline." I argue not, but uncomplaining bow To Heav'n's high hest; secure, whate'er my lot, Meek spirit of resign'd Content, that thou Wilt smooth my pillow, and forsake me not. Thou to the turfy hut with pilgrim feet Wand'rest, from halls of loud tumultuous joy; Or on the naked down, when the winds beat, Dost sing to the forsaken shepherd-boy. Thou art the sick man's nurse, the poor man's friend, And through each change of life thou hast been mine; In every ill thou canst a comfort blend, And bid the eye, though sad, in sadness shine. Thee I have met on Cherwell's willow'd side; With thee unweary'd have I lov'd to roam, By the smooth-flowing Scheldt, or rushing Rhine; And thou hast gladden'd my sequester'd home, And hung my peaceful porch with eglantine. When cares and crosses my tir'd spirits try'd, And, blest with thee, forgot a world unkind. Ev'n now, while toiling through the sleepless night, And the glad objects that once charm'd my sight I see thee come half-smiling to my bed, Whose arm sustaining holds my drooping head, O firmer spirit! on some craggy height Who, when the tempest sails aloft, dost stand, And hear'st the ceaseless billows of the night Rolling upon the solitary strand; At this sad hour, when no harsh thoughts intrude To mar the melancholy mind's repose, When I am left to night and solitude, And languid life seems verging to its close; O let me thy pervading influence feel! Be every weak and wayward thought repress'd! And hide thou, as with plates of coldest steel, The faded aspect and the throbbing breast. Silent the motley pageant may retreat, And vain mortality's brief scenes remove; Yet let my bosom, whilst with life it beat, Breathe a last pray'r for all on earth I love. Slow-creeping pain weighs down my heavy eye, * See Dr. Harington's exquisite Air to the words : "Come, gentle Muse, lull me to sleep, "With some sweet harmony!" ON LEAVING WINCHESTER SCHOOL, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1782. THE spring shall visit thee again, Itchin! and yonder aged fane* That casts its shadows on thy breast, (As if, by many winters beat,, The blooming season it would greet) With many a straggling wild-flow'r shall be drest! But I, amidst the youthful train That stray at ev'ning by thy side, No longer shall a guest remain To mark the spring's reviving pride. * St. Croix. |