Cúrse it let them who curse the passing day,
And to the voice of mourning raise the lay ;
Nor ever be the face of dawning seen

its lustre on the enameld green ;
Because it seald not up my mother's womb,
Nor hid from me the sorrows doom'd to come.
Why have I not from mother's womb expir’d?
My life resign'd when life was first requir'd ?
Why did supporting knees prevent my death,
Or suckling breasts sustain my infant breath ;
For now my soul with quiet had been blest,
With kings and counsellors of earth at rest,
Who bade the house of desolation rise,
And awful ruin strike tyrannic eyes,
Or with the princes unto whom were told
Rich store of silver and corrupting gold ;
Or, as untimely birth, I had not been
Like infant, who the light hath never seen;
For there the wicked from their trouble cease,
And there the weary find their lasting peace;


There the poor prisoners together rest,
Nor by the hand of injury opprest;
The small and great together mingľd are,
And free the servant from his master there;
Say, wherefore has an over-bounteous heaven
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?
Why should the troubld and oppress'd in soul
Fret over restless life's unsettled bowl,
Who long for death, who lists not to their pray'r,
And dig as for the treasures hid afar ;
Who with excess of joy are blest and glad,
Rejoic'd when in the tomb of silence laid ?
Why then is grateful light bestow'd on man,
Whose life is darkness, all his days a span?
For ere the morn return'd my sighing came,
My mourning pour'd out as the mountain stream;
Wild visag'd fear, with sorrow-mingled eye,
And wan destruction piteous star'd me nigh;
For though no rest nor safety blest my soul,
New trouble came, new darkness, new controul.


O Thou who with incessant gloom
Court'st the recess of midnight tomb!
Admit me of thy mournful throng,
The scatter'd woods and wilds among;
If e'er thy discontented ear
The voice of sympathy can cheer,
My melancholy bosom's sigh
Shall to your mournful plaint reply;
There to the fear-foreboding owl

Furies hiss and howl;
Or near the mountain's pendant brow
Where rush-clad streams in cadent murmurs flow.


Who's he that with imploring eye
Salutes the rosy dawning sky?
The cock proclaims the morn in vain,
His sp’rit to drive to its domain ;


For morning light can but return
To bid the wretched wail and mourn:
Not the bright dawning's purple eye
Can cause the frightful vapours fly,
Nor sultry Sol's meridian throne
Can bid surrounding fears begone;
The gloom of night will still preside,
While angry conscience stares on either side...


To ease his sore distemper'd head,
Sometimes upon the rocky bed
Reclin'd he lies, to list the sound
Of whispering reed in vale profound.
Happy if Morpheus visits there,
A while to lull his woe and care;
Send sweeter fancies to his aid,
And teach him to be undismay'd;
Yet wretched still, for when no more
The gods their opiate balsam pour,

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Ah, me! he starts, and views again
The Libyan monster prance along the plain,

Now from the oozing caves he flies,
And to the city's tumults hies,
Thinking to frolic life away,
Be ever cheerful, ever gay:
But tho' enwrapt in noise and smoke,
They ne'er can heal his peace when broke;
His fears arise, he sighs again
For solitude on rural plain ;
Even there his wishes all conveen
To bear him to his noise again.
Thus tortur'd, rack'd, and sore opprest,
He constant hunts, but never-

er-finds his rest,


Oh exercise ! then healing power, The toiling rustic's chiefest dower ; Be thou with parent virtue join'd To quell the tumults of the mind;

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