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Sits melancholy, mark'd with decent pride,
His garb is coarse and threadbare, and his cheek
And, now I mark thy features, I behold The cause of thy complaining. Thou art here A persecuted exile ! one, whose soul,
Unbow'd by guilt, demands na patronage
What of that!
Who, that lives, Hath not his portion of calamity ? Or who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom ? The fever throbbing in the tyrant's veins, In quick, strong language, tells the daring wretch That He is mortal, like the poorest slave Who wears his chain, yet healthfully suspires. The sweetest rose will wither, while the storm Passes the mountain thistle. The bold bird, Whose strong eye braves the ever-burning orb, Falls like the summer fly, and has, at most, But his allotted sojourn. Exild Man ! Be cheerful! Thou art not a fugitive ! All are thy kindred all thy brothers, here The hoping-trembling creatures--of one God!
The hinds how blest who ne'er beguil'd
When Morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam
'Midst gloomy shades, in warbles clear, Wild Nature's sweetest notes they hear : On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue : In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, They spy the squirrel's airy bounds: And startle from her ashen spray, Across the glen, the screaming jay; Each native charm their steps explore Of Solitude's sequester'd store.
For them the Moon, with cloudless ray, Mounts, to illume their homeward way ; Their weary spirits to relieve, The meadows incense breathe at eve. No riot mars the simple fare That o'er a glimm’ring hearth they share ; But when the curfew's measur'd roar Duly, the dark’ning valleys o'er, Has echoed from the distant town, They wish no beds of cygnet-down, No trophied canopies, to close Their drooping eyes in quick répose.
Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primros'd coppice stray, Or gambol in the new-mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill, To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, To rob the raven's ancient nést.
Their humble porch with honied flowers The curling woodbine's shade embowers; From the small garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound: Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume Life's golden prime; But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar, As studious still calme peace to keep, Beneath a flow'ry turf they sleep.
THE WANDERER'S ROUNDELAY.
EARTH does not bear another wretch
So helpless, so forlorn as I;
And not for me a heart will sigh.
Will not a thought to woe incline; The wretched feel a fierce distress, Too much their own to think of mine;
And few shall be
The tears for me,
There was a time when joy ran high,
And every sadder thought was weak; Tears did not always dim this eye,
Or sorrow always stain this cheek; And even now I often dream,
When sunk in feverish broken sleep, Of things that were, and things that seem, And friends that love, then wake to weep
That few shall be
Trav’llers lament the clouded skies,
The moralist the ruin'd hall,
How many mark and mourn its fall!
No stone will mark my lonely spot;
And few shall be
The tears for me,
Yet welcome, hour of parting breath,
Come, sure unerring dart—there's room For sorrow in the arms of death,
For disappointment in the tomb:
Tho' not by kind remembrance blest,
Oh, sound shall be
The rest for me,