 | The Poetical Works (1855) |  |
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND IN TOWN.
Have my friends in the Town, the busy, gay Town,
Forgot such a man as John Dyer?
Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown,
Whose bosom no pageantries fire?
Forgot such a man as John Dyer?
Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown,
Whose bosom no pageantries fire?
No matter, no matter, content in the shades—
Contented! why everything charms me—
Fall in tune all adown the green steep, ye cascades!
Till hence rigid Virtue alarms me.
Contented! why everything charms me—
Fall in tune all adown the green steep, ye cascades!
Till hence rigid Virtue alarms me.
Till Outrage arises, or Misery needs
The swift, the intrepid avenger:
Till sacred Religion, or Liberty bleeds—
Then mine be the deed, or the danger.
The swift, the intrepid avenger:
Till sacred Religion, or Liberty bleeds—
Then mine be the deed, or the danger.
115
Alas! what a folly, that wealth and domain
We heap up in sin and in sorrow!
Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over to-morrow?
We heap up in sin and in sorrow!
Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over to-morrow?
Then glide on my moments, the few that I have,
Sweet-shaded, and quiet, and even,
While gently the body descends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to heaven.
Sweet-shaded, and quiet, and even,
While gently the body descends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to heaven.
| The Poetical Works (1855) | |