VI

Ye winged hours that o'er us past,

Enraptur'd more the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast,

My fondly treasured thoughts employ'd. That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, And not a wish to gild the gloom!

VII.

The morn that warms th' approaching day,
Awakes me up to toil and woe:
I see the hours in long array,

That I must suffer, lingering, slow.
Full many a pang, and many a throe,
Keen recollection's direful train,
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low,
Shall kiss the distant, western main.

VIII.

And when my nightly couch I try,
Sore-harass'd out with care and grief,
My toil-beat nerves, and tear worn eye,
Keep watchings with the nightly thief :
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,

Reigus haggard-wild, in sore affright:
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief,

From such a horror breathing night.

IX.

O! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway

Oft has thy silent-marking glance
Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray,
The time, unheeded, sped away,

While love's luxurious pulse beat high,
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,
To mark the mutual kindling eye.

X.

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set! Scenes, never, never, to return!

Scenes, if in stupor I forget,

Again I feel, again I burn!
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,
Life's weary vale I'il wander thro';
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn
A faithless woman's broken vow.

DESPONDENCY,

AN ODE.

I.

OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,

A burden more than I can bear,

I sit me down and sigh:
life! thou art a galling load,

Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!

Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!

What sorrows yet may pierce me thro
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;

My woes here shall close ne'er,

But with the closing tomb SI

II.

Happy, ye sons of busy life,

Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd
Yet while the busy means are ply'd
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet ev'ry sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same;
You, bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,

Find every prospect vain.

III.

How blest the Solitary's lot,

Who, all-forgetting, all forgot,

Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly gather'd fruits,
Besides his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways

of men are distant brought,

A faint collected dream:

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.

IV.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part;

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,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!

V.

Oh! enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,' To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill-exchang'd for riper times,

To feel the follies or the crimes,

Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,

Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,
That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining age!

WINTER,

A DIRGE.

I.

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

II.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"*

The joyless winter day,

Let others fear to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

* Dr Young.