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Poems

Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition

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Elegy, written in 1786, at a time when the subject of Imprisonment for Debt was much discussed.

Farewell thou last dim blush of fading day—
Ye busy scenes—ye bustling Cares, farewell:
Lo Contemplation watch the parting ray,
To lead the Votary to her pensive Cell!
Yes, power serene! your awful haunts I love,
What time, flow-pacing thro' the misty vale,
Wrapp'd in Night's sober mantle, sad you rove,
And breathe your precepts in the sullen gale,

99

And I have heard you, in the breezy sigh
Of Zephyrs moaning in the Moon's pale beam,
While scarce their humid pinnions, as they fly,
Shake the dark spray, or curl the spangled stream.
And I have heard and felt the solemn call,
What time, more awful, in the stormy blast,
Amid the ruins of some ivy'd wall,
You told of Earth's frail pomps, and follies past.
O! lead me then, sad moralizing pow'r!
To where thy Cavern fronts the raging main:
There will I think on life's tempestuous hour,
And human woe shall moralize the strain.
Ah me! how long the gaunt disastrous train
That croud with anguish Man's precarious day!
How Sickness, Sorrow, Penury, and Pain,
And Disappointment throng in dark array!
How perjur'd Friendship darts the treacherous sting—
How all the youthful Passions, gay to view,
Repentance, shame, and wild affliction bring—
While scorpion Furies all their paths pursue!
Where Pleasure courts us with her smiling train,
There Pain and Death prepare the hidden dart—
Where Wealth allures with hopes of promis'd gain,
There Ruin waits to rend the wasted heart.

100

How many from the golden dreams of life,
Has my sad soul seen wak'd to iron woe!
How many sunk in shame and hopeless strife,
Who grasp'd at fame with hope's aspiring glow.
From the high summit of well-founded hopes
(If ought were founded in this fragile world)
While each gay prospect round alluring opes,
To Want's abyss what crouds are headlong hurl'd!
To that abyss as, with imploring hands
And bleeding hearts, precipitate they fall,
Lo prosperous Avarice—fiend unfeeling! stands,
And points the iron door, and grated wall.
Is this the land where liberal feelings glow?
Is this the land where Justice holds the scale?
The felon's lot must pale Disaster know?
And freemen give Misfortune's sons a gaol?—
A gaol!—oh horror! what a sound is there
To jar the feeling nerve of Virtue's ear!
The dungeon's gloom must guiltless Sorrow share,
Its noxious terrors, and its pangs severe?
From scenes like these, let Contemplation soar,
Nor sink desponding in the cheerless gloom;
A better world, with better hopes, explore,
Mount to the skies, and peer beyond the tomb.