Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

The time has been (but ah! farewel those days—
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.

Around the social hearth, at night, we throng'd,
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Far past the usual hour for rest assign'd.

Full oft our sire'd the youthful train provoke;
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And in the comrade loose the sire's command.

Good gentle soul! fulfill'd with sober cheer,
Of morals blameless, as of manners gay;
He scorn'd the stoick frown and tone severe,
And rather chose by love than fear to sway.

111

But Death's keen axe has long embrac'd the root
Of all our joys. Yet not within his tomb
Was bliss interr'd; for many a tender shoot
Sprung budding forth, and blush'd with hopeful bloom.

Grief's season past, gay Mirth return'd again,
(Now flown perhaps to visit me no more).
The blazing faggot cheer'd the social train,
While Ease and Plenty show'r'd their lavish store.

Around the hat impatient were we seen,
And eager wrestled for our transient fate.
If I suppos'd gay Stella was the queen,
Eager I panted for the kingly state.

The prize obtain'd, I claim'd th'accustom'd kiss,
And thought no real Monarch was so blest:
This crown'd my transport; was my warmest wish:—
Love, now my torture, then was but my jest.

Thus was I wont this festive eve to spend,
In mirth outshining all my childish peers,
With spirits, health, and fortune to befriend—
What sad reverse attends my ripening years!

112

Grim Penury, with unremitting care,
And friendless solitude, my peace destroys;
And love, all hopeless, drives me to despair;
And hell-born Ate my sad heart annoys.

Ye cheerful hours, unhurt by gnawing Care!
Ye social days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye hither, once again, repair?
Will e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?

Pale Melancholy's first-born daughter, Spleen,
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe depictur'd screen,
And thus her hope-destroying lore instils:

Perhaps, while here in solitude I set—
My playful cat, my only company,
Who seems to pity my dejected state,
And, purring, fondly sports upon my knee.

Perhaps, while here in solitude I pine,
And doating think on lovely Delia's charms—
Those charms, alas! which never must be mine:
Ah how the teasing thought my heart alarms!

113

Perhaps while I in solitude reflect,
And sing in mournful verse my hapless plight,
The regal name my Delia may elect,
And some pert beau (the monarch of the night)

E'en now, perhaps, upon her coral lips
Imprints the kiss, his three-hours consort hails;—
Careless the balmy nectar'd breath he sips,
Nor knows how rare a flow'r his sense regales.

Or else, perhaps, (thus moping Spleen inspires)
Some favour'd lover gains the peerless prize;
The pleasing kiss inflames their mutual fires,
And mutual pleasure melts in either's eyes.

—Ah why to all the real woes of life
Should sick Imagination add her store?
Ideal, blending with substantial strife,
Oppress the feeble wretch surcharg'd before?

Hence caitiff Spleen, with thy chimera train!
Swell not with fancied woes my real grief,
Nor forge conceits to double ev'ry pain!—
But come, kind Hope, and bring my mind relief.

114

Full many a turn has Fortune's giddy wheel,
And I, who long have mourn'd her cruel spite,
In time her warm benevolence may feel:—
Aurora's rays succeed the darkest night.