« ForrigeFortsæt »
“ Content, as random Fancies might inspire,
If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre
My heart has thanked thee, Bowles ! for those
soft strains. Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring ! For hence not callous to the mourner's pains Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I
went: And when the mightier throes of mind began, And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man, Their mild and manliest melancholy lent A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned To slumber, though the big tear it renewed ; Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood Over the wavy and tumultuous mind, As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.
As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,
Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew
meek Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view, Who with proud words of dear-loved Freedom
More blasting than the mildew from the South !
Though roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude
When British Freedom for a happier land
the doom Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze, Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.