« السابقةمتابعة »
Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn,
A victim of consuming care? Is thy distracted conscience torn
By fell despair ? Do foul misdeeds of former times
Wring with remorse thy guilty breast? And ghosts of unforgiven crimes
Murder thy rest ? Lash'd by the furies of the mind,
From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee? Ah! think not, hope not, fool! to find
A friend in me. By all the terrors of the tomb,
Beyond the power of tongue to tell! By the dread secrets of my womb!
By Death and Hell ! I charge thee live !-repent and pray;
In dust thine infamy deplore; There yet is mercy ;-go thy way,
And sin no more. Art thou a mourner? Hast thou known
The joy of innocent delights, Endearing days for ever flown,
And tranquil nights ? O live !—and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past: Rely on Heaven's unchanging will
For peace at last: Art thou a wanderer? Hast thou seen
O’erwhelming tempests drown thy bark? A shipwreck'd sufferer hast thou been,
Misfortune's mark ?
· Though long of winds and waves the spott,
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam, Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port,
A quiet home. * To Friendship didst thou trust thy fame,
And was a Friend a deadly foe, Who stole into thy breast, to aim
A surer blow ? • Live! and repine not o'er his loss,
A loss unworthy to be told: Thou hast mistaken sordid dross
For Friendship’s gold. Seek the true treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, And soothe the bosom's deepest wound
With heavenly balm. • Did Woman's charms thy youth beguile,
And did the fair one faithless prove? Hath she betray'd thee with her smile,
And sold thy love? Live! 'Twas a false bewildering fire:
Too often Love's insidious dart Thrills the fond soul with wild desire,
But kills the heart. " Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear
To gaze on listening Beauty's eye! To ask,--and pause in hope and fear
Till she reply. • A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,
A brighter maiden faithful prove;' Thy youth, thine age shall yet be bless'd
In woman's love.
- Whate'er thy lot,—whoe'er thou be,
Confess thy folly, kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrows see
The hand of God. "A bruised reed he will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel;
He wounds to heal!
Prostrate his Providence adore: 'Tis done! Arise! He bids thee stand,
To fall no more. * Now, traveller in this vale of tears !
To realms of everlasting light,
Pursue thy flight.
A rest for weary pilgrims found; And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground, · The Soul of origin divine,
God's glorious image freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine,
A star of day! • The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky; The Soul, immortal as its Sire,
Shall never die.'
When coldness wraps the suffering clay,
Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? It cannot die, it cannot stay,
But leaves its darken'd dust behind. Then, unimbodied, doth it trace
By steps each planet's heavenly way? Or fill at once the realms of space,
A thing of eyes, that all survey? Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,
A thought unseen, but seeing all, All, all in earth, or skies display'd,
Shall it survey, shall it recall:
So darkly of departed years,
And all that was at once appears.
Its eye shall roll through chaos back; And where the furthest heaven had birth,
The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes,
Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quench'd or system breaks,
Fix'd in its own eternity.
Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear,
It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year;
Its years as moments shall endure.
Away, away, without a wing,
O’er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly; A nameless and eternal thing,
Forgetting what it was to die. BYRON.
Tell us, ye dead, will none of you in pity
Rise, spectres, rise! some pitying ghost appear,