THE TRIUMPH OF MELANCHOLY. MEMORY, be still! why throng upon the thought Yes-from afar a landscape seems to rise, Embellished by the lavish hand of spring; Thin gilded clouds float lightly o'er the skies, And laughing loves disport on fluttering wing. How blest the youth in yonder valley laid! His merry pipe attunes the rural lay. Hail, Innocence! whose bosom, all serene, Vain wish! for lo, in gay attire concealed, Yonder she comes! the heart-inflaming fiend! (Will no kind power the helpless stripling shield !) Swift to her destined prey see Passion bend! O smile accurst, to hide the worst designs! And, instant, lo, his dizzy eyeball swims Pain, with strong grasp, distorts his writhing limbs, Is this, O Life, is this thy boasted prime! And does thy spring no happier prospect yield! Why should the sunbeam paint thy glittering clime, When the keen mildew desolates the field! How memory pains! Let some gay theme beguile Be life's past scenes wrapt in oblivious night. Now when fierce Winter, armed with wasteful power, Ambition here displays no gilded toy, That tempts on desperate wing the soul to rise; Nor Pleasure's paths to wilds of woe decoy, Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's proud disguise. Oft has Contentment cheered this lone abode, With the mild languish of her smiling eye; Here Health in rosy bloom has often glowed, While loose-robed Quiet stood enamoured by. Even the storm lulls to more profound repose; Blow on, ye winds! Thine, Winter, be the skies; And toss the infuriate surge, and vales lay waste. Nature thy temporary rage defies; To her relief the gentler Seasons haste. Throned in her emerald car, see Spring appear! (As Fancy wills, the landscape starts to view.) Her emerald car the youthful Zephyrs bear, Fanning her bosom with their pinions blue. Around the jocund Hours are fluttering seen, And Beauty's bright-eyed train from Heaven descends! Haste, happy days, and make all Nature glad- Will ye one transient ray of gladness dart, Where groans the dungeon to the captive's wail? When stern Oppression, in his harpy fangs, From Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel bears, Can ye allay the dying parent's pangs, Whose infant craves relief with fruitless tears? |