The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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DESPONDENCY An Ode
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| IV. |
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
DESPONDENCY An Ode
I
Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care,A burden more than I can bear,
I set me down and sigh;
O Life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!
Dim-backward, as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro',
Too justly I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er
But with the closing tomb!
II
Happy ye sons of busy life,Who, equal to the bustling strife,
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Ev'n when the wishèd end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandoned wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night
And joyless morn the same.
You, bustling and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless yet restless,
Find ev'ry prospect vain.
III
How blest the Solitary's lot,Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell—
The cavern, wild with tangling roots—
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or haply to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint-collected dream;
While praising, and raising
His thoughts to Heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.
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IV
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'dWhere never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise—
Can want and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not
Or human love or hate;
Whilst I here must cry here
At perfidy ingrate!
V
O enviable early days,When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies or the crimes
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
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That active man engage;
The fears all, the tears all
Of dim declining Age!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |