Had more of strength, diviner rage, Confirm the tales her sons relate! DESPONDENCY. OPPRESSED with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, I sit me down and sigh: O life! thou art a galling load, What sorrows yet may pierce me through, Too justly I may fear! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; But with the closing tomb! Happy! ye sons of busy life, Ev'n when the wished end's denied, Yet, while the busy means are plied, Meet every sad returning night And joyless morn the same. K You bustling and justling, Find every prospect vain. How blest the Solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Or haply to his evening thought, A faint-collected dream: While praising, and raising His thoughts to Heaven on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky. Than I, no lonely Hermit plac'd The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art: But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste, The Solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! He needs not, he heeds not, Oh! enviable early days, When dancing thoughtless Pleasure's maze, To feel the follies or the crimes Ye tiny elves, that guiltless sport Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage, ON SLAVERY. BUT, ah! what wish can prosper, or what prayer For merchants rich in cargoes of despair, Who drive a loathsome traffic, gage and span, And buy the muscles and the bones of man? The tender ties of father, husband, friend, All bonds of nature, in that moment end; And each endures, while yet he draws his breath, A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death. The sable warrior, frantic with regret Of her he loves, and never can forget, Loses in tears the far receding shore, But not the thought that they must meet no more: Depriv'd of her and freedom at a blow, What has he left that he can yet forego? Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd, He feels his body's bondage in his mind; Puts off his generous nature; and to suit His manners with his fate, puts on the brute. Oh most degrading of all ills that wait On man, a mourner in his best estate! All other sorrows virtue may endure, And find submission more than half a cure; Grief is itself a med'cine, and bestow'd T'improve the fortitude that bears a load; |