Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock Together with an Essay on the Education of the Blind. To Which is Prefixed A New Account of the Life and Writings of the Author |
 |
 | Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock |  |
II.
What tho' the radiant sun and clement sky
Alternate warmth and show'rs dispense below;
Tho' spring presages to the careful eye,
That autumn copious with her fruits shall glow?
For us in vain her choicest blessings flow:
To ease the bleeding heart, alas! in vain
Rich swells the purple grape, or waves the golden grain.
Alternate warmth and show'rs dispense below;
Tho' spring presages to the careful eye,
That autumn copious with her fruits shall glow?
For us in vain her choicest blessings flow:
To ease the bleeding heart, alas! in vain
Rich swells the purple grape, or waves the golden grain.
96
What summer-breeze, on swiftest pinions borne,
From fate's relentless hand its prey can save?
What sun in death's dark regions wake the morn,
Or warm the cold recesses of the grave?
Ah wretched man: whose breast scarce learns to heave
With kindling life; when, ere thy bud is blown,
Eternal winter breathes, and all its sweets are gone.
From fate's relentless hand its prey can save?
What sun in death's dark regions wake the morn,
Or warm the cold recesses of the grave?
Ah wretched man: whose breast scarce learns to heave
With kindling life; when, ere thy bud is blown,
Eternal winter breathes, and all its sweets are gone.
Thou all-enlivening flame, intensely bright!
Whose sacred beams illume each wand'ring sphere,
That thro' high heav'n reflects thy trembling light,
Conducting round this globe the varied year;
As thou pursu'st thy way,
Let this revolving day,
Deep-ting'd with conscious gloom, roll slow along:
In sable pomp array'd,
Let night diffuse her shade,
Nor sport the chearless hind, nor chant the vocal throng.
Whose sacred beams illume each wand'ring sphere,
That thro' high heav'n reflects thy trembling light,
Conducting round this globe the varied year;
As thou pursu'st thy way,
Let this revolving day,
Deep-ting'd with conscious gloom, roll slow along:
In sable pomp array'd,
Let night diffuse her shade,
Nor sport the chearless hind, nor chant the vocal throng.
| Poems by the Late Reverend Dr. Thomas Blacklock | |