WHAT art thou, dubious power? that to the earth
Now sinks the sadden'd heart, now lifts it high,
At once of human, and of heav'nly birth;
Mortal, thy sire, thy mother of the sky,
Or borne by seraph Hope through fields of air,
Or plung'd in caverns by the fiend Despair.
E'en now thy double sway divides my breast,
Thy tyrannizing poize, 'twixt good and ill;
Yet equal both to rob the mind of rest,
As each alternate works thy tort'ring will;
O then, to certain joy, or certain grief,
The balance turn, and give my soul relief!
Give me the worst to hear, or best to know;
This dread delay unfits that soul to bear,
With wonted fortitude, new loads of woe;
And bliss deferr'd must mix corroding care. Too late the sun his stronger rays shall dart, When flower-worms feed upon the rose's heart. Pratt's Gleanings in England.
By a Lady on her Death Bed at Bath, to her
Husband in London.
THOU, who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,
Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy:
Thou tend'rest husband, and thou best of friends,
To thee this first, this last adieu I send;
At length the conq'ror, Death, asserts his right,
And will for ever veil me from thy sight.
He woos me to him with a cheerful grace;
And not one terror clouds his meagre face.
He promises a lasting rest from pain;
And shews that all life's fleeting joys are vain.
Th' eternal scenes of heav'n he sets to view,
And tells me that no other joys are true.
But love, fond love, would yet resist his pow'r ;
Would fain awhile defer the parting hour:
He brings thy mourning image to my eyes,
And would obstruct my journey to the skies.
But say, thou dearest, thou unwearied friend,
Say, should'st thou grieve to see my sorrows end?
Thou know'st a painful pilgrimage I've past;
And should'st thou grieve that rest is come at last?
Rather rejoice to see me shake off life,
And die as I have liv'd-thy faithful wife.
SEE on his beating pinions rise
The little soarer to the skies;
Sweet raptures swell his throat!
Sublime in clouds he tow'rs away,
And hails the op'ning lids of day
In many a tuneful note.
His morning anthem o'er, he leaves
The fields of light, and earth receives
Her humble guest again :
Pleas'd he renews his daily tasks,
And to supply what nature asks
He gleans the furrow'd plain.
But when the sun has reach'd the west, And bends his radiant gold to rest,
Again the lark aspires,
Exulting wings the azure way,
And mingles his melodious lay
With heav'ns immortal choirs.
Loud warbling from the ætherial height,
At length to earth he drops his flight,
To take a sweet repose,
Till the sun's heav'n-ascending ray,
Scatt'ring the shades of night away,
In purple lustre glows.
"This bird," cry'd I, "suggests to me
A copy what myself should be;
Who, as the morn and ev'n
Alternate roll, should always give
Praises to him from whom I live,
And all my bliss is giv'n.
"The shining hours of time that run
'Twixt the gay morn and setting sun,
I like the lark should spend:
And the sweet train of studious cares
Should fill the current of my years,
Till life should find its end."
Addressed to a young Lady, on her introduction into high life.
N pleasure's gladsome wing repair,
Where varied joys unite to meet thee:
Where high-born lords, with flattering air,
And tender accents, press to greet thee.
Yet, if amidst the splendid scene,
One softer thought should intervene,
One sigh should from thy bosom flee,
Oh! may that sigh be breath'd for me.
Let fancy's magic pow'r awhile
Transport thy lover to thy view,
Whose constant round of irksome toil
Each morning's light must still renew:
His days with sad suspense o'ercast,
His nights in restless slumbers past:
Canst thou, my love, this portrait see,
Nor sigh for him, who droops for thee?
Oh! deign those tortures to appease,
That prey upon my aching breast:
Each doubt, each fear shall learn to cease,
If with thy love I still am blest;
Cheerful I'll meet the varied pains
That hard necessity ordains,
And not a sigh my breast shall flee,
Unless that sigh be breath'd for thee.
My aspect, late so pale and wan,
That wore no dress, but that of sorrow, Shall bid its cloud of grief begone,
And from thy smiles new pleasures borrow: And when my love thou deign'st to meet, With transports high my heart shall beat, And should it sigh, its sighs shall be Of pleasure born, and love of thee.
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