And, instant, lo, his dizzy eyeballs swim Ghastly, and reddening dart a threatful glare; Pain with strong grasp distorts his writhing limbs, And Fear's cold hand erects his bristling hair! Is this, O life, is this thy boasted prime? And does thy spring no happier prospect yield? Why gilds the vernal sun thy gaudy clime, When nipping mildews waste the flowery field? How memory pains! Let some gay theme beguile The musing mind, and soothe to soft delight. Ye images of woe, no more recoil; Be life's past scenes wrapp'd in oblivious night. Now when fierce Winter, arm'd with wasteful power, Heaves the wild deep that thunders from afar, How sweet to sit in this sequester'd bower, To hear, and but to hear the mingling war! Ambition here displays no gilded toy That terpts on desperate wing the soul to rise, Nor Pleasure's flower-embroider'd paths decoy, Nor Anguish lurks in Grandeur's gay disguise. Oft has Contentment cheer'd this lone abode With the mild languish of her smiling eye; Here Health has oft in blushing beauty glow'd, While loose-robed Quiet stood enamour'd by. E'en the storm lulls to more profound repose: The storm these humble walls assails in vain; Screen'd is the lily when the whirlwind blows, While the oak's stately ruin strows the plain. Blow on, ye winds! Thine, Winter, be the skies, Roll the old ocean, and the vales lay waste: Nature thy momentary rage defies; To her relief the gentler seasons haste. Haste, happy days, and make all nature glad— Cross the dark cell where hopeless slavery lies? To ease tired Disappointment's bleeding heart, Will all your stores of softening balm suffice? When fell Oppression in his harpy fangs From Want's weak grasp the last sad morsel bears, Can ye allay the heart-wrung parent's pangs, Whose famish'd child craves help with fruitless tears? For, ah! thy reign, Oppression, is not pass'd: Who from the shivering limbs the vestment rends? Who lays the once rejoicing village waste, Bursting the ties of lovers and of friends? VOL. IV. A A O ye, to Pleasure who resign the day, And learn to melt at Misery's moving cry. But hopest thou, Muse, vainglorious as thou art, With the weak impulse of thy humble strain, Hopest thou to soften Pride's obdurate heart, When Errol's bright example shines in vain? Then cease the theme. Turn, Fancy, turn thine eye, Thy weeping eye, nor further urge thy flight; Thy haunts, alas! no gleams of joy supply, Or transient gleams, that flash, and sink in night. Yet fain the mind its anguish would forego Spread then, historic Muse, thy pictured scroll; Bid thy great scenes in all their splendour glow, And swell to thought sublime the' exalted soul. What mingling pomps rush boundless on the gaze! What gallant navies ride the heaving deep! What glittering towns their cloud-wrapt turrets raise! What bulwarks frown horrific o'er the steep! Bristling with spears, and bright with burnish'd shields, The' embattled legions stretch their long array; Discord's red torch, as fierce she scours the fields, With bloody tincture stains the face of day. And now the hosts in silence wait the sign: How keen their looks whom Liberty inspires! Quick as the goddess darts along the line, Each breast impatient burns with noble fires. Her form how graceful! In her lofty mien The smiles of Love stern Wisdom's frown control; Her fearless eye, determined though serene, Speaks the great purpose, and the' unconquer'd soul. Mark, where Ambition leads the adverse band, Each feature fierce and haggard as with pain! With menace loud he cries, while from his hand He vainly strives to wipe the crimson stain. Lo, at his call, impetuous as the storms, Headlong to deeds of death the hosts are driven: Hatred, to madness wrought, each face deforms, Mounts the black whirlwind, and involves the heaven. Now, Virtue, now thy powerful succour lend, Not Virtue's self, when Heaven its aid denies, Can brace the loosen'd nerves, or warm the heart; Not Virtue's self can still the burst of sighs, See, where by heaven-bred terror all dismay'd But who is he that, by yon lonely brook With woods o'erhung and precipices rude *, Abandon'd lies, and with undaunted look Sees streaming from his breast the purple flood? Ah, Brutus! ever thine be Virtue's tear! Lo, his dim eyes to Liberty he turns, As scarce supported on her broken spear O'er her expiring son the goddess mourns. Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies, From her dishevel'd locks she rends the plume; No lustre lightens in her weeping eyes, And on her tear-stain'd cheek no roses bloom. Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway, Fame's loudest trumpet labours in thy praise, For thee the Muşe awakes her sweetest lay, And Flattery bids for thee her altars blaze. Nor in life's lofty bustling sphere alone, [toil, The sphere where monarchs and where heroes Sink Virtue's sons beneath Misfortune's frown, While Guilt's thrill'd bosom leaps at Pleasure's smile; Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell, Far, far remote amid the lowly plain, Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell. Such is man's doom, and Pity weeps in vain. Still grief recoils-How vainly have I strove Thy power, O Melancholy, to withstand! Tired I submit; but yet, O, yet remove, Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand. * Such, according to the description given by Plutarch, was the scene of Brutus's death. |