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Wild raving to the unfeeling air,
(Rage the burthen of his jarring song) In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his
No pleasing memory left--forgotten quite
Connubial love-parental joy
Not so the love-lorn Maid,
Her gentle breast no angry passion fires,
She yet retains her wonted flame,
All--but in reason
still the same.
Dim haggard looks, and clouded o’er' with care, Point out to Pity's tears, the poor distracted Fair. Dead to the world-her fondest wishes crost
She mourns herself thus early lost.
Now, sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings,
She starts-she flies-- who dares so rude
On her sequesterd steps intrude ?
"T is he--the Momus of the flighty train-
Merry mischief, fills his brain.
Big with conceit of dignity he smiles,
Laughter was there- But mark that groan,
Drawn from the inmost soul ! “ Give the knife, Dæmons, or the poison'd bowl, « To finish miseries equal to your own.”
Who's this wretch, with horror wild?-
Thou, "fair RELIGION, wast design'd,
To point where sits, in love array'd,
First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene,
Till SUPERSTITION, fiend of woe,
Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow, And spread deep shades our view and Heaven be
Drawn by her pencil, the CREATOR stands,
wide. Hope, at the frown aghast, yet ling’ring, flies, And dash'd on TERROR's rocks, Faith's best
But ah!-too thick they crowd, -too close they
Objects of pity and affright! Spare farther the descriptive songNature shudders at the sight.
Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale, But o'er the hapless groupe, low drop COMPAS
ODE 1. UNLESS my fair-one's check be near, To tinge thee with superior red, How vain, O Rose, thy boasted bloom ! Unless, prime scason of the year, The grape's rich streams be round thee shed, Alike how vain is thy perfume !
In shrubs which skirt the scented mead,
Thou flow'ret trembling to the gale,