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Age—my future self-I trace
.BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE.
SWELL the clarion, sweep the string,
Blow into rage the Muse's fires ! All thy answers, Echo, bring, Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring,
'Tis Madness' self inspires.
Hail, awful Madness, hail !
Thy realm extends, thy powers prevail, Far as the voyager spreads his 'ventrous sail.
Nor best nor wisest are exempt from thee;
Hark!-To the astonish'd ear
Phrenzy leads her Chorus near,
Pride-Ambition idly vain,
Devotion warp'd-Affection crost
Hope in disappointment lostAnd injur'd Merit, with a downcast eye (Hurt by neglect) slow stalking heedless by.
Loud the shouts of Madness rise,
Bursts of laughter-heart-felt groans-
Rough as the wintry wave, that roars
(Rage the burthen of his jarring song) In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his streaming
No pleasing memory left--forgotten quite
Connubial love-parental joy-
-But all is dark within, all furious black despair.
Not so the love-lorn Maid,
Her gentle breast no angry passion fires,
She yet retains her wonted Aame,
Incessant sighs, 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 fies—who dares so rude
'Tis he-the Momus of the Aighty train
Merry mischief fills his brain.
Laughter was there but mark that groan,
Drawn from the inmost soul ! “ Give the knife, Demons, or the poison’d bowl, “ To finish miseries equal to your own."
Who's this wretch, with horror wild -
Sunk in the emphasis of grief,
Thou, fair Religion, wast design'd,
To point where sits, in love array'd,
First shewn by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scena,
'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,
And hurling vengeance wide.
But ah I-too thick they croud,—too close they