Yet more I ask — Ah,  aid my pen
To paint the grateful rapture, to describe
How the big heart, exulting, scarcely beats,
And joy too vast oppresses all the frame!
The extacy in languor leaves the soul,
And all her slacken'd faculties relax.
The web of Gratitude's so finely wrought,
Thought hardly dares to touch it; soft'ning time,
And frequent pauses, give it strength of growth,
E'en to oppression. Oh, delightful pain!
My soul wants firm support. The gloomy joy
I once preferr'd, and thought the nobler choice,
Has lost its relish; grand mistake of fools,
In sullen self absorb'd! Lo! far estrang'd
From social joy, I fix'd my woe-fraught eye
Where riches blaz'd upon a murky soul,
And serv'd to light its errors to the world;
I met th'ungenial influence, bright, but cold,
And, hardening by th'encounter, deep I sunk
Abstracted — Scorn and Silence led the way,
No matter whither: — The too gaudy Sun
Shines not for me; no bed of Nature yields
Her varied sweets; no music wakes the grove;
No vallies blow, no waving grain uprears
Its tender stalk to cheer my coming hour;
But horrid Silence broods upon my soul,
With wing deep-drench'd in Misery's torpid dews.
That heart which once had join'd the laughing train,
Whose guiltless rapture flew on Fancy's wing,
Nor once suspected thus to feel the gripe
Of iron-claw'd Despair, now yields to pangs,
To agonies more exquisite than Death;
That is — to live. O, Nature! shriek no more,
I have no answer for thy thrilling voice;
Go, melt the soul, less frozen in her pow'rs,
And bid her weep o'er miseries not her own;
Hold up the fainting babe who sighs its wants,
So mutely incoherent; mark the head
Which age and woe bend tremulous to earth;
Whose lamp, now quivering in the socket, calls
In haste for aid, ne'er finds it, and goes out.
Plead thou for those, but never talk of aid
For miseries like mine, which mock relief.