REMOTE from those enchanting bowers,
Where dance the nimble-footed hours,
Where revels frantic Folly;
To thee I bring the tribute tear,
Visits the Muse thy mansions drear,
Heart-searching Melancholy.
By thee inspir'd, by Fancy led,
Thy hallow'd ground I seem to tread,
Where o'er the joyless plain
The aether sheds its blackest hue,
And here and there a lonely yew
Marks Melancholy's reign.
Where chearful gales forget to blow,
Pellucid currents cease to flow,
The cloud-capt mountain's height
All avenues of the dreary way
Secures from each pervading ray
Of soul-enlivening light.
Where Grief sad social solace seeks,
The rose has fled her meagre cheeks,
And hollow is her eye;
Care on her lap reclines his head,
Whilst hovering round the restless bed
The wing'd chimeras fly.
Rack'd with ideal tortures, Spleen
A thousand fiends unknown, unseen,
With shadowy faulchions scare ;
This rends her breast, that goads her sides,
And every hag of Fancy rides
The phantom thro' the air.
Hark, softly stealing on the ear
The hollow sigh, the dropping tear,
The music of Despair;
Not lovers' sorrow-mocking sighs
Or mimic Grief that melts the eyes
Of youthful widow'd fair.
Sorrows that orphan bosoms pierce,
Pour'd o'er a tender parent's hearse,
Snatch'd by unpitying fate;
No fostering hand's kind solace nigh,
Each summer friend with wayward eye
Surveys their helpless state.
Thus the vague group of vernal flies,
While Titan gilds the cloudless skies,
Sport in the glistening ray;
The splendid scene once overcast
By lowering cloud, or adverse blast,
Each insect veers away.
When Pleasure's madding tide o'erswells
The rapt breast, to those doleful cells
Of misery let me stray;
There shall thought-fostering Solitude,
Whilst no fantastic joys intrude,
Each devious step recall to Virtue's rugged
BY THE REV. WILLIAM MASON, M. A.
AH! cease this kind persuasive strain,
Which, when it flows from friendship's tongue,
However weak, however vain,
O'erpowers beyond the Siren's song:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me muse upon my woe.
Why lure me from these pale retreats ?
Why rob me of these pensive sweets ?
Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand, supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill
Soft-tinkling down the moss-grown hill,
Whilst through the west, where sinks the crimson Day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners
Say, from Affliction's various source
Do none but turbid waters flow ?
And cannot fancy clear their course ?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.
Say, 'mid that grove, in love-lorn state,
When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all, that meets the shepherd's ear,
Inspir'd by anguish, and despair?
Ah no, fair Fancy rules the song:
She swells her throat she guides her tongue;
She bids the waving Aspin spray
Quiver in cadence to her lay;
She bids the fringed Osiers bow,
And rustle round the lake below,
To suit the tenor of her gurgling sighs,
And sooth her throbbing breast with solemn sympathies.
To thee, whose young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares ;
Whose cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the tide of tears;
To thee yon Abbey, dank and lone,
Where Ivy chains each mould'ring stone
That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.
Yet some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander through the cloysters drear,
Could rove each desolated Isle,
Though midnight thunders shook the pile;
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