Before him spread his various serinons lay, On these he cast a fond, but tearful eye, Awhile he paus'd, for sorrow dimm'd his sight; Arous'd at length, he heav'd a bitter sigh, And thus complain'd, as well indeed he might : "Hard is the scholar's lot, condemn'd to sail Unpatroniz'd, o'er Life's tempestuous wave; "Clouds blind his sight; nor blows a friendly gale, To waft him to one port-except the grave. "Big with presumptive hope, I launch'd my keel, "With youthful ardour, and bright science fraught; "Unanxious of the pains long doom'd to feel, 86 Unthinking that th' voyage might end in nought.. "Pleas'd on the summer sea, I danc'd awhile, "Had my ambitious mind been led to rise "No tow'ring thoughts like these engag'd my breast, "I hop'd (nor blame, ye proud, the lowly plan). "Some little cove, some parsonage of rest, "The scheme of duty suited to the man: Where, in my narrow sphere secure, at ease, From vile dependence free, I might remain, "The guide to good, the counsellor of peace, "The friend, the shepherd, of the village swain. "Yet cruel Fate deny'd the small request, ་ "And bound me fast, in one ill-omien'd hour, Beyond the chance of remedy, to rest "The slave of wealthy pride and priestly pow'r "Oft as in russet weeds I scour along, " "Nor circumscrib'd in dignity alone, "Do I my rich, superior's vassal ride; "Sad penury, as was in cottage known, "With all its frowns, does o'er my roof preside. "Ah! not for me the harvest yields its store, " The bough-crown'd shock in vain attracts mine eye; "To labour doom'd, and destin'd to be poor, "I pass the field, I hope not envious, by. "When at the altar, surplice-clad, I stand, "The bridegroom's joy draws forth the golden fee; "The gift I take, but dare not close my hand; "The splendid present centres not in me." PENROSE. CHAPTER XXXV. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. AN ODE. VITAL spark of heav'nly flame! Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, Hark! they whisper; angels say, What is this absorbs me quite, The world recedes; it disappears! O Death! where is thy sting? POPE. CHAPTER XXXVI. TO-MORROW. TO-MORROW, didst thou say! Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow. 'Tis a sharper who stakes his penury Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash, That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow! It is a period no where to be found In all the hoary registers of time, Unless perchance in the fool's calendar. Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society But soft, my friend, arrest the present moments; And though their flight be silent, and their path trackless They post to Heaven, and there record thy folly- Didst let them pass unnotic❜u, unimprov❜d, 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of Life's fountain! Oh! let it not elude thy grasp, but, like The good old patriarch upon record, COTTON. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE CREATION REQUIRED TO PRAISE ITS AUTHOR. BEGIN, my soul, th' exalted lay! Lo! heav'n and earth, and seas and skies, To swell th' inspiring theme.. Ye fields of light, celestial plains,. Your Maker's wondrous pow'r proclaim, Ye angels catch the thrilling sound! Join, ye lond spheres, the vocal choir; Thou heav'n of heav'ns, his vast abode; Whate'er a blooming world contains, Ye dragons, sound his awful name Let ev'ry element rejoice; Ye thunders, burst with awful voice To him, ye graceful cedars, bow; Tell, when affrighted Nature shook, And trembled at his frown. |