There melancholy loves to dwell,
And listen to the passing bell,

That speaks our mortal doom;

With pensive form, and haggard stare,
She bends, the picture of despair,
O'er Beauty's early tomb.—

She, with her sister madness, oft
On some high rock will sit aloft,
That foaming billows sweep,
And while all nature feels dismay,
With fix'd, unalter'd eye survey
The tempest, and the deep.

But when in some secluded cell,
She tunes her wild, pathetic shell,
Soft Zephyrs breathe around;
The Shepherd's pipe upon the hill
Is hush'd-the vocal woods are still,
To hear the mournful sound!

Hark! music strikes the list'ning ear,
In notes more thrilling, plaintive, clear,
Than e'er to man were given ;
Sweet as the sounds that angels sing
When loud applauding seraphs bring
A chosen saint to heav'n.

Glory to thee, in holy hymn,
Who sitt'st amid the cherubim,
High Lord of heav'n alone!

My God, my Father, and my Friend!
With humble gratitude I bend

Before thine awful throne!

If e'er in deed, in word, or thought,
I've been by passion blindly taught
From virtue's path to steer,

O let me to thy throne repair
With humble penitence and pray'r;

Nor thou refuse to hear.

Incline my

heart to wisdom's rule,

And try me in affliction's school,

And teach my erring mind

To know that pleasure, glitt'ring toy,

Yields but a transitory joy,

And leaves a sting behind.

Tho' light'nings flash, and tempests low'r,

He shall outlive the dreadful hour

Who stands in worth securePure as the current of the rills, Firm as the everlasting hills,

Shall virtue's self endure.

And now, with earthly care opprest,
My Spirit, Father! sinks to rest,
Be thou my guardian Pow'r;
And thro' the silent reign of night,
Let sleep descend in slumbers light,
As saint's expiring hour.

'Tis Mona's bard—with magic sweep,— Who rais'd the spirits of the deep

In Fingal's dreary cave;

High on a mountain's tow'ring spire,
He wakes the music of his Lyre,

O'er many a warrior's grave.

When wand'ring ghosts, as Legends tell, Forsook the dismal caves of hell,

To haunt the midnight gloom;

And while the distant thunder roll'd,
Would oft to mortal ears unfold
The secrets of the tomb !

Hail holy shade! whose harp divine,
O'er druid's altar, hero's shrine
Awoke in dying falls-

No more thine airy music floats

In solemn, sad, and swelling notes
Thro' Mona's desart walls.--

Hail, Melancholy, Pow'r sublime!

Which naught but all-consuming time

Shall vanquish, or destroy!

When earth shall melt, and sea, and skies,

O may thy troubled Spirit rise

To everlasting joy.

ODE. NIGHT.

THE Sun with mild declining ray,
Proclaims the hour of parting day,
And thro' the dusky plain

The swain his ev'ning carol sings,
And night once more on sable wings,
Resumes her silent reign-

The lover mourns beneath the shade,
For broken vows, and hopes betray'd,
And friendship's cold return:
And where departed merit sleeps,
Affection her lone vigil keeps,

And bathes the laurell'd urn.

Now, while the thoughtless and the gay, Life's fleeting moments pass away

In festive hall, or bow'r;

Let me, while nightly dews descend,
In silent meditation spend

The solitary hour.