 | Poems (1797) |  |
153
THE MELANCHOLY MAN.
I
What means this tumult of thy soul,Those feelings words could ne'er define;
Those languid eyes that vacant roll,
Those cherish'd thoughts that inly pine?
Why dost thou wildly love to stray
Where dimly gleams the doubtful day,
And all-unconscious muse with pensive pace?
Or why in lorn dejected mood
Bend o'er the melancholy flood,
And with unmeaning gaze the heedless current trace?
II
Ah! why, thou poor, distracted thing!Those muttered accents, broken, low;
154
From unintelligible woe?
Why does the rose that deck'd thy cheek
Pal'd o'er with care, no more bespeak
The lovely flush of life's luxuriant morn?
Or o'er thy shrunk, ambiguous face
Bereft of youth's untutor'd grace
Thy locks all wildly hang, neglected and forlorn?
III
Should eve's meek star with paly eyePeep lonely o'er the mountain's head,
While on the blue translucent sky
Some feathery clouds are lightly spread;
Why wilt thou seek the rushy heath,
And listen as the gale's low breath
Murmurs forlorn the moss-clad waste along?
When from the white-thorn's blossom'd spray
The red-breast sings his latest lay,
155
IV
Why does the tear unbidden start,And why those sighs that wildly swell?
Why flutters thy tumultuous heart,
Thy looks unspoken feelings tell,
If chance beneath thy devious feet
Thou see'st the lover's last retreat,
The cold and unblest grave of pale despair?
Why dost thou drop a feeling tear
Upon the flowret lurking near,
And bid it ever droop, a meek memento there?
V
Why with unwonted longings yearnO'er this, the last resource of man,
And with mysterious envy turn
Thy only shelter, Worth! to scan?
156
When April sheds her chilly dew,
Bend o'er the spot, ere peeps the weeping day?
When Eve's unrealizing gleam
Confounds the gaze in visual dream,
Why dost thou love to hear the curfew die away?
VI
Where (monument of past delight,And truer type of joy's brief reign)
The Ruin gleams, and dim Affright
Shivers the homeward-plodding swain;
Why dost thou love alone to tread
Fragments with ivy overspread,
And mark the grey-tower half enshrin'd in trees;
Or listen, as in vaults beneath
From viewless forms deep murmurs breathe,
And sighs on mossy walls the melancholy breeze?
157
VII
Why dost thou loiter on the beachWhere rippling dies the bright-blue wave,
And often with fantastic speech
To the deaf ocean idly rave?
Why dost thou bid the billow bear
Thy frame unnerv'd by fancied care
To realms more pure, where genial souls inspire?
Why dost thou view the little skiff,
Which flutters near the frowning cliff,
With many an “aching wish” and impotent desire?
VIII
When in the crowded walks of men,'Mid festive scenes thou'rt doom'd to mix,
Why on some distant lonely glen
Thy ill-attuned spirit fix?
Why dost thou spurn alluring mirth,
And bend unconscious to the earth,
158
Why dost thou frown on every sport,
And curse indignant those that court
The motley phantom Joy, on Folly's tinsel throne?
IX
And wherefore, when the trump of fameInflames the soul to glory's deed,
Such deed with cynic sternness blame,
And quaintly mock th' ephemeral meed?
Why now with misanthropic eye
The springs of action keenly try
Through the pure medium of eternal truth?
Now rais'd above this nether sphere
A mere spectator, judge severe,
Nor chill'd by fears of age, nor warm'd by hopes of youth?
X
Is it because each tie is goneThat bound thee to this fragile state?
159
No friend to love!—no foe to hate?
Has keen affection often brought
The pleasures of a tender thought,
And is such thought for ever now bereft?
Say, hast thou felt an ardent flame
Which not eternity could tame,
And are its joys expir'd, and all its vigour left?
XI
Has fancy to thy madden'd gazeDisplay'd th' elysian dells of bliss,
Say, did her secret wonders raise
A wish for happier worlds than this?
And is the wanton faery flown,
And left thee chill'd to conscious stone,
At this cold prospect of unmeaning care?
And is Hope's lustre fled afar,
160
Gleams one congenial ray, repellent of despair?
XII
Is it that thou didst love mankindWith ardour warm as angels feel;
And did they spurn thy generous mind,
And wanton wound—nor wish to heal?
—If causes dark as these have wrought
The puzzling wreck of splendid thought,
I weep!—and meekly turn from this low earth;
Yet sometimes muse, why miscreants bloom,
While Sorrow's bleak untimely gloom
Blights, ere his powers expand, the trembling child of Worth!
| Poems (1797) | |