Age-my future self-I trace ODE XXIX. MADNESS. BY THE REV. THOMAS PENROSE. SWELL the clarion, sweep the string, Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring, 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; Folly Folly's only free. Hark! To the astonish'd ear The gale conveys a strange tumultuous sound. Pride-Ambition idly vain, Revenge, and malice swell her train, Devotion warp'd-Affection crost― And injur'd Merit, with a downcast eye Loud the shouts of MADNESS rise, All seem to pierce the skies. Rough as the wintry wave, that roars Wild raving to the unfeeling air, (Rage the burthen of his jarring song) In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his streaming hair. No pleasing memory left-forgotten quite No sympathies like these his soul employ, -But all is dark within, all furious black despair. Not so the love-lorn Maid, By too much tenderness betray'd; Her gentle breast no angry passion fires, But slighted vows possess, and fainting, soft desires. She yet retains her wonted flame, All-but in reason, still the same.- Incessant sighs, Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care, Now, sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings, She starts she flies-who dares so rude 'Tis he-the MOмUS of the flighty train— And plots his frolics quaint, and unsuspected Laughter was there-but mark that groan, "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, Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief. Thou, fair Religion, wast design'd, To warm and chear the human mind, To point where sits, in love array'd, The God, the Father of us all. First shewn 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 tween. Drawn by her pencil the Creator stands, With thunder arming his uplifted hands, And hurling vengeance wide. Hope, at the frown aghast, yet ling'ring, flies, And dash'd on Terror's rocks, Faith's best de pendence lies. But ah I-too thick they croud,-too close they throng, Objects of pity and affright! |