Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past— And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. “And say, when summon'd from the world and thee, I lay my head beneath the willow tree; Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear, So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply; But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim A mother's ear by that endearing name; Soon as the playful innocent can prove Or cons his murm'ring task beneath her care, The mournful ballad warbled in his ear; Where is the troubled heart, consign'd to share Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray To count the joys of Fortune's better day! The dim-ey'd tenant of the dungeon gloom, Chide not his peace, proud Reason! nor destroy The shadowy forms of uncreated joy, That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail; She, sad spectatress, on the wint'ry shore Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, Clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze: Poor widow'd wretch! 'twas there she wept in vain, Till memory fled her agonizing brain;— But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe, Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky, And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, Pil'd on the steep, her blazing faggots burn To hail the bark that never can return; And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep And, mark the wretch, whose wand'rings never knew The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue, Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, But found not pity when it err'd no more. Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye Th' unfeeling proud one looks-and passes by; Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam, Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home— Ev'n he, at evening, should he chance to stray Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way, |