Age-my future self-I trace
Moving slow with feeble pace,
Bending with disease and cares,
All the load of life he bears;
White his locks, his visage wan,
Strength, and ease, and hope are gone.
Death, the shadowy form I know!
Death o'ertakes him, dreadful foe!
Swift they vanish-mournful sight,
Night succeeds, impervious night!
What these dreadful glooms conceal
Fancy's glass can ne'er reveal;
When shall time the veil remove?
When shall light the scene improve?
When shall truth my doubts dispell?
Awful period! who can tell?

ODE XXIX.

MADNESS.

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; Folly Folly's only free.

Hark! To the astonish'd ear

The gale conveys a strange tumultuous sound.
They now approach, they now appear,―
Phrenzy leads her Chorus near,
And Daemons dance around.-

Pride-Ambition idly vain,

Revenge, and malice swell her train,

Devotion warp'd-Affection crost―
Hope in disappointment lost-

And injur'd Merit, with a downcast eye
(Hurt by neglect) slow stalking heedless by.

Loud the shouts of MADNESS rise,
Various voices, various cries,
Mirth unmeaning-causeless moans,
Bursts of laughter-heart-felt groans-

All seem to pierce the skies.

Rough as the wintry wave, that roars
On THULE'S desart shores,

Wild raving to the unfeeling air,
The fetter'd Maniac foams along,

(Rage the burthen of his jarring song)

In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his streaming hair.

No pleasing memory left-forgotten quite
All former scenes of dear delight,
Connubial love-parental joy-

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.-
Streaming eyes,

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,
Now, pensive ruminates unutterable things.

She starts she flies-who dares so rude
On her sequester'd steps intrude ?—

'Tis he-the MOмUS of the flighty train—
Merry mischief fills his brain.
Blanket-rob'd, and antic crown'd,
The mimic monarch skips around;
Big with conceit of dignity he smiles,

And plots his frolics quaint, and unsuspected
wiles.

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 ?-
'Tis Devotion's ruin'd child.-

Sunk in the emphasis of grief,

Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief.

Thou, fair Religion, wast design'd,
Duteous daughter of the skies,

To warm and chear the human mind,
To make men happy, good, and wise.

To point where sits, in love array'd,
Attentive to each suppliant call,
The God of universal aid,

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,
(His beams of mercy thrown aside)

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!