Classic Poem

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION, IN EMANUEL COLLEGE,
CAMBRIDGE, ON A VISIT, AFTER SOME YEARS ABSENCE .

I.

As some lone redbreast, urg'd by beating storms,
Flies the cold precincts of the leafless grove,
And, while bleak WINTER nature's face deforms,
Seeks the kind shelter of some neat alcove:

II.

Thus I, still travelling thro' this vale of tears,
And not unoft beset with tempests rude,
Here rest my weary steps, and hush my fears,
Wrapt in thy sacred haunt, blest solitude .

III.

Ye walls, (for ye have witness'd oft my prayer)
Oh once again receive a transient guest!
A wanderer oft, and now the child of care,
Here let him steal a momentary rest.

IV.

Studious of truth, I sought your mild abode;
In quest of truth I wander'd far away:
Ah! could I think, as yet untaught, the road
So thorny was, that fancy painted gay?

V.

Rich as the stream o'er thirsty Egypt pours,
Soft as the breeze o'er Libya's parched plain,
To me so rich are memory's fruitful stores,
Thus soft to me the muses soothing strain.

VI.

Remembrance brings to view the polish'd friend,
My youth's sweet pride, the patron of my song;
With grateful love at A SKEW 's name I bend;
One hallow'd strain to A SKEW 's name prolong.

VII.

Long too as reason holds its faithful seat,
Eliza's worth shall dwell within this breast;
Wisdom and beauty in Eliza met;
Deep on this heart her image lies express'd.

VIII.

At Hope's vain dreams how smiled insidious Death!
Ah! forms, that liv'd in wayward Fancy's eye!
Or hung but on a mortal's fleeting breath,
And with that mortal doom'd, ah! soon, to die.

IX.

But, say, is Hope thus doom'd through life to dream?
Is Fancy, though a gay, yet faithless guide?
False as yon orb, reflected from the stream,
Light as the meteors that thro' aether glide?

X.

No — let Reflection try her native force;
Her sober aid let sage Experience lend;
So shall meek Patience smooth life's downward course,
And stern Affliction prove a faithful friend.

XI.

Not such the pleasures of the young or gay,
(Ah! pleasure short-liv'd as the bloom of youth,)
As his, who burns within for purer day,
As his, whose bosom teems with love of truth.

XII.

Fair nature's volume legible, and plain,
Its ample page unfolds to all mankind;
Read by the sage, tho' often read in vain,
Read by the savage, deem'd by sages blind.

XIII.

The softest breeze, that whispers thro' the dale,
The meanest flower, that drinks the pearly dew,
The smallest insect, floating on the gale,
Give to their grief-worn cheek a brighter hue.

XIV.

Yet are there, whom delights not Nature's green,
Nor sooths the sweetest songsters sweetest lay:
Mourners there are, who love the midnight scene,
And, like the night-bird, shun the face of day.

XV.

There are, who love the gothic aisle to tread,
The dark grove frowning round the hermit's stall,
The cloyster'd pile, where sleep the mouldering dead,
And heroes bleed upon th' escutcheon'd wall.

XVI.

Nor dare ye tribes, that frolic gay at noon,
Nor ye, who grieve in state, their grief deride;
Ev'n the hoarse night-bird screaming to the moon,
More soothes, than Folly's noise, or Folly's pride.

XVII.

Nor vainly twinkle those fair orbs of light;
Nor vainly does yon moon's mild glory shine;
Nor the still waters shew the face of night:
Ah! scene, how well allied to cares like mine!

XVIII.

And e'en around this solitary room,
Kind visitant, to cheer my midnight song,
The same fair moon throws no unpleasing gloom,
Spreading athwart its shadows dark and long.

XIX.

For not alone complaining Love shall find
The magic stillness of the midnight scene;
Sorrows, if such there be, of heavier kind,
Lose their severer form, and grow serene.

XX.

Ah! think not Fate will only bliss bestow;
Pleasure and pain compose her motley plan:
Oh! may I learn to melt at human woe,
By knowing, what it is to feel like man!

XXI.

" To talk of truth, and miss it: to complain;
" To toil and pant for fame; with love to sigh;
" To count that loss, that once was reckon'd gain; —
" Then to grow weary, turn aside, and die.

XXII.

Ah! think not Fate will only bliss bestow;
Pleasure and pain compose her motley plan:
Oh! may I learn to melt at human woe,
By knowing, what it is to feel like man:

XXIII.

" To talk of truth, and miss it: to complain;
" To toil and pant for fame; with love to sigh;
" To count that loss, that once was reckon'd gain; —
" Then to grow weary, turn aside, and die.