THE MISANTHROPE.

THE MISANTHROPE.

ADOWN a narrow winding vale,
His thin locks waving in the gale,
High on a jutting crag he sate
Brooding upon his weary fate,

While woes perchance we may not tell—

Or fancy, did his bosom swell,

As on the moaning element

These words in piteous tones he sent :

"Away-away-ye pangs of wo,

Distract no more this throbbing brain, My heart with brighter hopes shall glow,

And freer beat each pulse and vein :

Long have I been thy servile prey,

O Grief! and worshipped at thy shrine; But now from thee I'll flee away,

And in the giddy circle shine.

"No more I'll court gray solitude,
No more to gloomy thoughts give way,
No more o'er human sorrows brood,
Nor shun the youthful circle gay :
No more I'll seek this lonely dell,

To give my stricken heart relief,

Midst blither scenes henceforth to dwell,

I'll bid a long farewell to Grief.

"O Sorrow! had I known ere this,

To steel my breast against thy dart,
I had not felt such wretchedness,

I had not borne a broken heart;
My days had not so sadly past,
My nights have rolled so darkly by,
These clouds had not my brow o'ercast,
Nor yet my soul had learned to sigh:

"And though youth's buoyancy has fled, And life's best, brightest years have sped,