Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
 |
|
|
Elegy, written during the Festival of Christmas,
1785.
|
 |
|
 | Poems |  |
97
Elegy, written during the Festival of Christmas, 1785.
The time has been (but ah! farewell 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.
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
Beyond the usual hour for rest assign'd.
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Beyond the usual hour for rest assign'd.
Oft would our Sire the youthful train provoke;
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And, in the comrade, lose the sire's command.
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And, in the comrade, lose the sire's command.
Good, gentle soul! who every soul could 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.
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.
But he is gone; and gone the joys of life—
Now woes on woes roll thickening o'er my head;
While Penury, and keen domestic Strife,
And hopeless Love their mingled venom shed.
Now woes on woes roll thickening o'er my head;
While Penury, and keen domestic Strife,
And hopeless Love their mingled venom shed.
98
Pale Melancholy's first-born daughter, Spleen,
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe-depictur'd screen,
Blasts every hope, and every prospect chills.
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe-depictur'd screen,
Blasts every hope, and every prospect chills.
Ah why, to all the real woes of life,
Should sick Imagination add her store?—
Ideal blending with substantial strife,
To crush the feeble wretch oppress'd before?
Should sick Imagination add her store?—
Ideal blending with substantial strife,
To crush the feeble wretch oppress'd before?
Ye cheerful Hours, unhurt by gnawing Care!
Ye social Days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye e'er the wrongs of Fate repair?
Shall e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?
Ye social Days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye e'er the wrongs of Fate repair?
Shall e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?
| Poems | |