The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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HAPPINESS.—AN ODE. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
HAPPINESS.—AN ODE.
Ah! dark and dreary low'rs the night,
The rocking blasts, the flashing light,
Unusual horrors form!
Unhappy he, who nightly braves
The fury of surrounding waves
Amid this dreadful storm.
The rocking blasts, the flashing light,
Unusual horrors form!
Unhappy he, who nightly braves
The fury of surrounding waves
Amid this dreadful storm.
And yet, though far remote from shore,
Though loud the threat'ning tempest roar,
And heave the yawning deep:
Hope cheers each breast, that future winds,
Shall waft them peaceful to their friends,
To comfort those that weep.
Though loud the threat'ning tempest roar,
And heave the yawning deep:
Hope cheers each breast, that future winds,
Shall waft them peaceful to their friends,
To comfort those that weep.
Not so with me! distrest, forlorn,
Still doom'd to weep from night to morn,
My life a chain of woes.
The past, regret—the present, care,
The future, black with grim despair,
Till earth shall o'er me close.
Still doom'd to weep from night to morn,
My life a chain of woes.
The past, regret—the present, care,
The future, black with grim despair,
Till earth shall o'er me close.
How happy they, who blest with health,
And all the gen'rous joys that wealth,
Unstain'd with sadness give;
Enjoy the bliss that hourly flows,
Nor hear their hapless groans and woes,
Who struggle hard to live!
And all the gen'rous joys that wealth,
Unstain'd with sadness give;
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Nor hear their hapless groans and woes,
Who struggle hard to live!
O thou kind Pow'r, who hears my strain,
To whom I silently complain,
And lift my eyes in grief;
'Tis Thine to bid the tempest roll,
'Tis Thine to heal the struggling soul,
And bring the wretch relief.
To whom I silently complain,
And lift my eyes in grief;
'Tis Thine to bid the tempest roll,
'Tis Thine to heal the struggling soul,
And bring the wretch relief.
Thus sung Alexis, lost to mirth,
While o'er the lonely, joyless hearth,
His mournful visage hung.
A silence reign'd—when soft and meek,
He, list'ning, heard these accents break
From an immortal tongue.
While o'er the lonely, joyless hearth,
His mournful visage hung.
A silence reign'd—when soft and meek,
He, list'ning, heard these accents break
From an immortal tongue.
‘Why droops thy head, unhappy youth?
Be calm, and hear the words of Truth,
Nor righteous Heaven accuse;
To man impartial gifts are giv'n,
Themselves alone make them unev'n,
By what their pride abuse.
Be calm, and hear the words of Truth,
Nor righteous Heaven accuse;
To man impartial gifts are giv'n,
Themselves alone make them unev'n,
By what their pride abuse.
Thou strain'st at wealth—ah! blind to fate,
Thou seest not what distresses wait
On him who claims the prize;
A snake, it cankers in his breast,
Distorts his looks, devours his rest,
And lures him from the skies.
Thou seest not what distresses wait
On him who claims the prize;
A snake, it cankers in his breast,
Distorts his looks, devours his rest,
And lures him from the skies.
On wealth proportion'd cares attend,
Who much commands, hath much to spend;
Or, are his treasures great?
Intemp'rance o'er them raves aloud,
They vanish like a morning cloud,
And leave their lord to fate.
Who much commands, hath much to spend;
Or, are his treasures great?
Intemp'rance o'er them raves aloud,
They vanish like a morning cloud,
And leave their lord to fate.
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What though, by poverty deprest,
Thou seeks a friend to soothe thy breast,
But seeks, alas! in vain:
This bane becomes a bliss at last,
For wisdom from the miseries past,
Corrects the present pain.
Thou seeks a friend to soothe thy breast,
But seeks, alas! in vain:
This bane becomes a bliss at last,
For wisdom from the miseries past,
Corrects the present pain.
Look closer, mark each seeming ill
That now with fear thy bosom fill,
And weigh each envy'd joy:
Health is a cheat, but sickness lights,
Through hopes and fears, to glorious heights,
Where saints their songs employ.
That now with fear thy bosom fill,
And weigh each envy'd joy:
Health is a cheat, but sickness lights,
Through hopes and fears, to glorious heights,
Where saints their songs employ.
Health, rosy as the crimson dawn,
Firm treads along the dewy lawn,
O'er-wrapt with flow'ry joy:
No ills shake his Herculean breast,
No deep-fetched groans of pain distrest,
His pleasures e'er annoy.
Firm treads along the dewy lawn,
O'er-wrapt with flow'ry joy:
No ills shake his Herculean breast,
No deep-fetched groans of pain distrest,
His pleasures e'er annoy.
While thus despising others' woe,
He courts each faithless shade below,
And laughs at threaten'd hell.
Pale Sickness lifts her languid eye
From earth, and fixes in the sky,
Where all her comforts dwell.
He courts each faithless shade below,
And laughs at threaten'd hell.
Pale Sickness lifts her languid eye
From earth, and fixes in the sky,
Where all her comforts dwell.
But view health gone, the wretch low laid,
By stern disease; past human aid,
Rack'd on the hopeless couch:
His heaving breast, with anguish tore,
His eyes deep sunk, his bloom no more,
And death in dread approach.
By stern disease; past human aid,
Rack'd on the hopeless couch:
His heaving breast, with anguish tore,
His eyes deep sunk, his bloom no more,
And death in dread approach.
Where now the boasted joys of earth?
Will these his riches, rank or birth,
Calm the despairing soul?
Ah no, behold he groans, he cries:
Tears choke his mingled moans and sighs;
And terrors round him roll.
Will these his riches, rank or birth,
Calm the despairing soul?
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Tears choke his mingled moans and sighs;
And terrors round him roll.
Then, favour'd youth, be thine the task,
For real happiness to ask,
From Nature's bounteous God;
Nor think on earth to grasp the prize,
She dwells aloft, beyond the skies,
Religion is the road.’
For real happiness to ask,
From Nature's bounteous God;
Nor think on earth to grasp the prize,
She dwells aloft, beyond the skies,
Religion is the road.’
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |