Come let us sit and watch the sky, And fancy clouds, where no clouds be; And make heav'n black with misery. Why should birds sing such merry notes, Was born to pain our hearts the more Why shines the sun, except that he When all the earth is bright beside? Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave, Mirth shall not win us back again, Whilst man is made of his own grave, And fairest clouds but gilded rain ! I saw my mother in her shroud, And ever since I've look'd on all As creatures doom'd to fail! Why do buds ope, except to die? Ay, let us think of Him a while, Where Death, with his keen-pointed style, How wide the yew tree spreads its gloom, And o'er the dead lets fall its dew, As if in tears it wept for them, How cold the dead have made these stones, With natural drops kept ever wet! Lo! here the best, the worst, the world Doth now remember or forget, Are in one common ruin hurl'd, And love and hate are calmly met; The loveliest eyes that ever shone, The fairest hands, and locks of jet. Is't not enough to vex our souls, Our hearts upon a violet? Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet; And, sometimes, at their swift decay Beforehand we must fret: The roses bud and bloom again; But love may haunt the grave of love, And watch the mould in vain. O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, And do not take my tears amiss; For tears must flow to wash away A thought that shows so stern as this: Forgive, if somewhile I forget, In woe to come, the present bliss. Her flowers at the sight of Dis, Ev'n so the dark and bright will kiss. The sunniest things throw sternest shade, And there is ev'n a happiness That makes the heart afraid! Now let us with a spell invoke The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes; Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud Lapp'd all about her, let her rise All pale and dim, as if from rest The ghost of the late buried sun Had crept into the skies. The Moon! she is the source of sighs, The very face to make us sad; If but to think in other times The same calm quiet look she had, As if the world held nothing base, Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad; P 2 The same fair light that shone in streams, The fairy lamp that charm'd the lad; She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad. All things are touch'd with Melancholy, Born of the secret soul's mistrust, To feel her fair ethereal wings Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust; Bring on conclusions of disgust, Like the sweet blossoms of the May, Whose fragrance ends in must. O give her, then, her tribute just, That sounds with idiot laughter solely; |