 | Blank verse (1798) |  |
50
WRITTEN THE 12TH OF FEBRUARY 1797.
This is my natal day! To me the thought
Awakens serious musings, and the sigh
Of soften'd recollection. Heretofore
This day has ne'er return'd, since manhood shap'd
My wayward heart, not finding me the dupe
Of feverish day-dreams, and the very slave
Of hope's pernicious phantasies. This day
Has ne'er return'd, not finding me possest
Of her, whose parent-claims to love were lost
In friendship's mightier attributes! Oh God,
And I am doom'd this dark, dark day to know
Those dreams, hope's phantasies, and my best friend,
For ever gone!
Awakens serious musings, and the sigh
Of soften'd recollection. Heretofore
This day has ne'er return'd, since manhood shap'd
My wayward heart, not finding me the dupe
Of feverish day-dreams, and the very slave
Of hope's pernicious phantasies. This day
Has ne'er return'd, not finding me possest
Of her, whose parent-claims to love were lost
In friendship's mightier attributes! Oh God,
And I am doom'd this dark, dark day to know
Those dreams, hope's phantasies, and my best friend,
For ever gone!
51
It boots not to complain;
Therefore will I, with meek and bowed thoughts,
Muse calmly on life's desolated path,
As the way-wanderer, who the onward brack
Gazes unanxious, though the bleak day fade,
Though the wet winds sweep chilly, and the bark
Of shepherd's watch-dog from the far-off hill
Die on the gusty blast; if he reflect,
That still in scenes remote a goodly home
Awaits his wearied steps! Yes, so can I
Look on life's waste with the composed smile
Of resignation; tranquil in the hope
That I may reach the abode where tears are wip'd
From every eye, where the dear bury'd friend
Shall recognize her long-bewilder'd child!
Yet let me, as I travel on, if chance
A pilgrim like myself cross the drear scene
I needs must tread, mingle with his my tear
For this bad world, beguile the little hour
With what my spirit from its scanty store
May spare, in kindliest sort to entertain
One haply not unsuffering; then pursue
My simple path, nor let the woes or joys
Of weak, self-satisfied humanity,
Break the long sabbath of my centred soul!
Enough if I the vacant moment soothe
With social intercourse! 'Tis not in man
To fill the aching breast! My God, thou know'st
How the heart pines that rests on human love!
Therefore will I, with meek and bowed thoughts,
Muse calmly on life's desolated path,
As the way-wanderer, who the onward brack
Gazes unanxious, though the bleak day fade,
Though the wet winds sweep chilly, and the bark
Of shepherd's watch-dog from the far-off hill
Die on the gusty blast; if he reflect,
That still in scenes remote a goodly home
Awaits his wearied steps! Yes, so can I
Look on life's waste with the composed smile
Of resignation; tranquil in the hope
That I may reach the abode where tears are wip'd
From every eye, where the dear bury'd friend
Shall recognize her long-bewilder'd child!
Yet let me, as I travel on, if chance
52
I needs must tread, mingle with his my tear
For this bad world, beguile the little hour
With what my spirit from its scanty store
May spare, in kindliest sort to entertain
One haply not unsuffering; then pursue
My simple path, nor let the woes or joys
Of weak, self-satisfied humanity,
Break the long sabbath of my centred soul!
Enough if I the vacant moment soothe
With social intercourse! 'Tis not in man
To fill the aching breast! My God, thou know'st
How the heart pines that rests on human love!
| Blank verse (1798) | |