Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, Their humble porch with honied flowers The curling woodbine's shade embowers: From the small garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound: Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime: But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar; As studious still calm peace to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. THE SUICIDE. [IBID.] BENEATH the beech, whose branches bare, Smit with the lightning's livid glare, O'erhang the craggy road, And whistle hollow as they wave; Within a solitary grave, A Slayer of himself holds his accurs'd abode. Lour'd the grim morn, in murky dyes As by the brook, that lingering laves I mark'd his desultory pace, His gestures strange, and varying face, And ah! too late aghast I view'd The reeking blade, the hand embrued; He fell, and groaning grasp'd in agony the ground. Full many a melancholy night He watch'd the slow return of light; To spread a momentary calm O'er his sad couch, and in the balm Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep. Full oft, unknowing and unknown, He wore his endless noons alone, Amid th' autumnal wood: Oft was he wont, in hasty fit, Abrupt the social board to quit, And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling flood, Beckoning the wretch to torments new, A spectre pale, appear'd; While, as the shades of eve arose, And brought the day's unwelcome close, More horrible and huge her giant shape she rear'd. 'Is this,' mistaken Scorn will cry, Is this the youth whose genius high Ah! from the Muse that bosom mild And rous'd to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of wo. Though doom'd hard penury to prove, More wounds than nature gave he knew, In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own. Then wish not o'er his earthy tomb Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn, That rudely binds his turf forlorn, With Spring's green-swelling buds to vegetate anew. What though no marble-piled bust With speaking sculpture wrought? Hung with unfading flowers, from fairy regions brought. What though refus'd each chaunted rite? And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom Of Laura, lost in early bloom, In many a pensive pause shall seem to ring his knell. To sooth a lone, unhallow'd shade, Within an ivied nook : Sudden the half-sunk orb of day More radiant shot its parting ray, And thus a cherub-voice my charm'd attention took: Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise; Nor thus for guilt in specious lays The wreath of glory twine: Gay Fancy gives her vest to flow, Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds confine. 'Just Heaven, man's fortitude to prove, Permits through life at large to rove The tribes of hell-born Wo: Yet the same power that wisely sends Religion's golden shield to break th' embattled foe. 'Her aid divine had lull'd to rest And stay'd the rising storm: Had bade the sun of hope appear To gild his darken'd hemisphere, And give the wonted bloom to nature's blasted form. Vain man! 'tis Heaven's prerogative To take, what first it deign'd to give, Thy tributary breath: In awful expectation plac'd, Await thy doom, nor impious haste To pluck from God's right hand his instruments of death.' |