To Pity
H EART-SOOTHING power, who lov'st to dwell
With sorrow in the secret cell,
I twine the garland for thy brow,
For thee I sweep the wild harp now,
And wake the plaintive air;
Friend of the poor, the sad, the weak,
Hearth-soothing Pity, offspring meek
Of Mercy and Despair;
Mercy the darling child of heaven,
The dearest boon to mortals given,
Of Mercy, modest, gentle, fair,
The first of virtues, and Despair;
Despair who walks the waves along,
Who calls the whirlwind's howl his song,
Delighted hears the tempest's crash,
And basks beneath the lightning-flash.
Who is the stranger wandering wide,
With want and misery at her side,
With penury, disease opprest,
And terror clinging to her breast?
Her cheek is fair but chill and cale,
And wither'd to a deadly pale,
That once defied compare;
Her eye is bright and lifted high,
But not with pleasure, not with joy,
'Tis anguish sparkles there;
And tho' her features, heav'nly mild,
Proclaim her Mercy's gentlest child,
They're mingled so with care,
So worn with pain, so wan with woe,
That all, who meet the stranger, know
The daughter of Despair!
Tis Pity! mildest, meekest, best,
Misfortune's balm, and sorrow's rest;
The dew that bathes the drooping flower,
The breeze that fans the sultry hour,
The lovely moon, whose silver shene
Smiling the stormy clouds between,
Gilds the black summits towering high,
Sleeps where the peaceful valleys lie,
And bids those waves that crept before,
Dark, dull, along the viewless shore,
Spring from their beds in beauty bright,
And roll a flood of liquid light.
Yes, yonder moon that now I see.
Pity, is emblem fair of thee:
Like thee, her beams are cold and pale,
And cheer, like thine, the earth's dim vale;
Like thee, she loves retiring far
From busy life's discordant jar,
To shed her generous ray alone,
As thou thy tear, unseen, unknown;
And even now a cloud obscures
That beauty half a world allures,
And dims her pure benignant shine,
As many an envious slander thine.
She like the lily breathes the air,
As soft, as lowly, and as fair,
Or rather, like the lily dead,
That drops the leaves, and hangs the head.
Tho' Pride heed not, Remembrance will,
Tho' beauty faded, beauty still:
Yet she is mortal, and her doom
To sleep for ever in the tomb:
When man lies down the worm to woo,
Pity shall sink, and Slumber too,
But not when man awakes, shall she
Respring to life and ecstasy:
The Muse who above time can tow'r,
Whose heart is flame, whose hand is pow'r,
E'en now, with inspiration pale,
Has torn aside the shadowy vale,
Whose mystic foldings' ambient cast,
Divide the future from the past:
There frowns the hoary deep, the billows strong
Of everlasting ages roll along;
Those waves that with resistless sway
Have swept the world and all its toys away—
Its charms, its cares, its follies, and its guilt,
And on whose bosom, halcyon-built,
Smiling amid the dreary gloom,
By angels rear'd is Pity's tomb.
There in oblivion deep are laid
The ashes of the mortal maid
Who tho' too soft, too good to know
The horrors of her sire below,
Had too much sorrow in her frame,
With Mercy heavenly joys to claim:
Yet rest thee, rest thee; o'er thy grave
Celestial willows weeping wave,
Thy sister virtues toll'd thy knell,
Seraphs awoke the sounding shell,
Thy dirge was rung, ere time was o'er,
From harps that never mourn'd before;
And tears were shed for thee in vain,
By eyes that ne'er weep again.
H EART-SOOTHING power, who lov'st to dwell
With sorrow in the secret cell,
I twine the garland for thy brow,
For thee I sweep the wild harp now,
And wake the plaintive air;
Friend of the poor, the sad, the weak,
Hearth-soothing Pity, offspring meek
Of Mercy and Despair;
Mercy the darling child of heaven,
The dearest boon to mortals given,
Of Mercy, modest, gentle, fair,
The first of virtues, and Despair;
Despair who walks the waves along,
Who calls the whirlwind's howl his song,
Delighted hears the tempest's crash,
And basks beneath the lightning-flash.
Who is the stranger wandering wide,
With want and misery at her side,
With penury, disease opprest,
And terror clinging to her breast?
Her cheek is fair but chill and cale,
And wither'd to a deadly pale,
That once defied compare;
Her eye is bright and lifted high,
But not with pleasure, not with joy,
'Tis anguish sparkles there;
And tho' her features, heav'nly mild,
Proclaim her Mercy's gentlest child,
They're mingled so with care,
So worn with pain, so wan with woe,
That all, who meet the stranger, know
The daughter of Despair!
Tis Pity! mildest, meekest, best,
Misfortune's balm, and sorrow's rest;
The dew that bathes the drooping flower,
The breeze that fans the sultry hour,
The lovely moon, whose silver shene
Smiling the stormy clouds between,
Gilds the black summits towering high,
Sleeps where the peaceful valleys lie,
And bids those waves that crept before,
Dark, dull, along the viewless shore,
Spring from their beds in beauty bright,
And roll a flood of liquid light.
Yes, yonder moon that now I see.
Pity, is emblem fair of thee:
Like thee, her beams are cold and pale,
And cheer, like thine, the earth's dim vale;
Like thee, she loves retiring far
From busy life's discordant jar,
To shed her generous ray alone,
As thou thy tear, unseen, unknown;
And even now a cloud obscures
That beauty half a world allures,
And dims her pure benignant shine,
As many an envious slander thine.
She like the lily breathes the air,
As soft, as lowly, and as fair,
Or rather, like the lily dead,
That drops the leaves, and hangs the head.
Tho' Pride heed not, Remembrance will,
Tho' beauty faded, beauty still:
Yet she is mortal, and her doom
To sleep for ever in the tomb:
When man lies down the worm to woo,
Pity shall sink, and Slumber too,
But not when man awakes, shall she
Respring to life and ecstasy:
The Muse who above time can tow'r,
Whose heart is flame, whose hand is pow'r,
E'en now, with inspiration pale,
Has torn aside the shadowy vale,
Whose mystic foldings' ambient cast,
Divide the future from the past:
There frowns the hoary deep, the billows strong
Of everlasting ages roll along;
Those waves that with resistless sway
Have swept the world and all its toys away—
Its charms, its cares, its follies, and its guilt,
And on whose bosom, halcyon-built,
Smiling amid the dreary gloom,
By angels rear'd is Pity's tomb.
There in oblivion deep are laid
The ashes of the mortal maid
Who tho' too soft, too good to know
The horrors of her sire below,
Had too much sorrow in her frame,
With Mercy heavenly joys to claim:
Yet rest thee, rest thee; o'er thy grave
Celestial willows weeping wave,
Thy sister virtues toll'd thy knell,
Seraphs awoke the sounding shell,
Thy dirge was rung, ere time was o'er,
From harps that never mourn'd before;
And tears were shed for thee in vain,
By eyes that ne'er weep again.
With sorrow in the secret cell,
I twine the garland for thy brow,
For thee I sweep the wild harp now,
And wake the plaintive air;
Friend of the poor, the sad, the weak,
Hearth-soothing Pity, offspring meek
Of Mercy and Despair;
Mercy the darling child of heaven,
The dearest boon to mortals given,
Of Mercy, modest, gentle, fair,
The first of virtues, and Despair;
Despair who walks the waves along,
Who calls the whirlwind's howl his song,
Delighted hears the tempest's crash,
And basks beneath the lightning-flash.
Who is the stranger wandering wide,
With want and misery at her side,
With penury, disease opprest,
And terror clinging to her breast?
Her cheek is fair but chill and cale,
And wither'd to a deadly pale,
That once defied compare;
Her eye is bright and lifted high,
But not with pleasure, not with joy,
'Tis anguish sparkles there;
And tho' her features, heav'nly mild,
Proclaim her Mercy's gentlest child,
They're mingled so with care,
So worn with pain, so wan with woe,
That all, who meet the stranger, know
The daughter of Despair!
Tis Pity! mildest, meekest, best,
Misfortune's balm, and sorrow's rest;
The dew that bathes the drooping flower,
The breeze that fans the sultry hour,
The lovely moon, whose silver shene
Smiling the stormy clouds between,
Gilds the black summits towering high,
Sleeps where the peaceful valleys lie,
And bids those waves that crept before,
Dark, dull, along the viewless shore,
Spring from their beds in beauty bright,
And roll a flood of liquid light.
Yes, yonder moon that now I see.
Pity, is emblem fair of thee:
Like thee, her beams are cold and pale,
And cheer, like thine, the earth's dim vale;
Like thee, she loves retiring far
From busy life's discordant jar,
To shed her generous ray alone,
As thou thy tear, unseen, unknown;
And even now a cloud obscures
That beauty half a world allures,
And dims her pure benignant shine,
As many an envious slander thine.
She like the lily breathes the air,
As soft, as lowly, and as fair,
Or rather, like the lily dead,
That drops the leaves, and hangs the head.
Tho' Pride heed not, Remembrance will,
Tho' beauty faded, beauty still:
Yet she is mortal, and her doom
To sleep for ever in the tomb:
When man lies down the worm to woo,
Pity shall sink, and Slumber too,
But not when man awakes, shall she
Respring to life and ecstasy:
The Muse who above time can tow'r,
Whose heart is flame, whose hand is pow'r,
E'en now, with inspiration pale,
Has torn aside the shadowy vale,
Whose mystic foldings' ambient cast,
Divide the future from the past:
There frowns the hoary deep, the billows strong
Of everlasting ages roll along;
Those waves that with resistless sway
Have swept the world and all its toys away—
Its charms, its cares, its follies, and its guilt,
And on whose bosom, halcyon-built,
Smiling amid the dreary gloom,
By angels rear'd is Pity's tomb.
There in oblivion deep are laid
The ashes of the mortal maid
Who tho' too soft, too good to know
The horrors of her sire below,
Had too much sorrow in her frame,
With Mercy heavenly joys to claim:
Yet rest thee, rest thee; o'er thy grave
Celestial willows weeping wave,
Thy sister virtues toll'd thy knell,
Seraphs awoke the sounding shell,
Thy dirge was rung, ere time was o'er,
From harps that never mourn'd before;
And tears were shed for thee in vain,
By eyes that ne'er weep again.
H EART-SOOTHING power, who lov'st to dwell
With sorrow in the secret cell,
I twine the garland for thy brow,
For thee I sweep the wild harp now,
And wake the plaintive air;
Friend of the poor, the sad, the weak,
Hearth-soothing Pity, offspring meek
Of Mercy and Despair;
Mercy the darling child of heaven,
The dearest boon to mortals given,
Of Mercy, modest, gentle, fair,
The first of virtues, and Despair;
Despair who walks the waves along,
Who calls the whirlwind's howl his song,
Delighted hears the tempest's crash,
And basks beneath the lightning-flash.
Who is the stranger wandering wide,
With want and misery at her side,
With penury, disease opprest,
And terror clinging to her breast?
Her cheek is fair but chill and cale,
And wither'd to a deadly pale,
That once defied compare;
Her eye is bright and lifted high,
But not with pleasure, not with joy,
'Tis anguish sparkles there;
And tho' her features, heav'nly mild,
Proclaim her Mercy's gentlest child,
They're mingled so with care,
So worn with pain, so wan with woe,
That all, who meet the stranger, know
The daughter of Despair!
Tis Pity! mildest, meekest, best,
Misfortune's balm, and sorrow's rest;
The dew that bathes the drooping flower,
The breeze that fans the sultry hour,
The lovely moon, whose silver shene
Smiling the stormy clouds between,
Gilds the black summits towering high,
Sleeps where the peaceful valleys lie,
And bids those waves that crept before,
Dark, dull, along the viewless shore,
Spring from their beds in beauty bright,
And roll a flood of liquid light.
Yes, yonder moon that now I see.
Pity, is emblem fair of thee:
Like thee, her beams are cold and pale,
And cheer, like thine, the earth's dim vale;
Like thee, she loves retiring far
From busy life's discordant jar,
To shed her generous ray alone,
As thou thy tear, unseen, unknown;
And even now a cloud obscures
That beauty half a world allures,
And dims her pure benignant shine,
As many an envious slander thine.
She like the lily breathes the air,
As soft, as lowly, and as fair,
Or rather, like the lily dead,
That drops the leaves, and hangs the head.
Tho' Pride heed not, Remembrance will,
Tho' beauty faded, beauty still:
Yet she is mortal, and her doom
To sleep for ever in the tomb:
When man lies down the worm to woo,
Pity shall sink, and Slumber too,
But not when man awakes, shall she
Respring to life and ecstasy:
The Muse who above time can tow'r,
Whose heart is flame, whose hand is pow'r,
E'en now, with inspiration pale,
Has torn aside the shadowy vale,
Whose mystic foldings' ambient cast,
Divide the future from the past:
There frowns the hoary deep, the billows strong
Of everlasting ages roll along;
Those waves that with resistless sway
Have swept the world and all its toys away—
Its charms, its cares, its follies, and its guilt,
And on whose bosom, halcyon-built,
Smiling amid the dreary gloom,
By angels rear'd is Pity's tomb.
There in oblivion deep are laid
The ashes of the mortal maid
Who tho' too soft, too good to know
The horrors of her sire below,
Had too much sorrow in her frame,
With Mercy heavenly joys to claim:
Yet rest thee, rest thee; o'er thy grave
Celestial willows weeping wave,
Thy sister virtues toll'd thy knell,
Seraphs awoke the sounding shell,
Thy dirge was rung, ere time was o'er,
From harps that never mourn'd before;
And tears were shed for thee in vain,
By eyes that ne'er weep again.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.