V.

The drowsy night-watch has forgot
To call the solemn hour;

Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep,
While I in vain, capricious Sleep,
Invoke thy tardy power;

And restless lie,

With unclos'd eye,

And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.

GENIUS,

AN ODE..

I. 1.

MANY there be, who, through the vale of life,
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife
Awakes them not to woe.

By them unheeded, carking Care,
Green-ey'd Grief, and dull Despair;
Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.

II. 1.

But ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,
And weeping Woe, and Disappointment keen,
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour,

And self-consuming Spleen.

And these are Genius' favourites: these
Know the thought-thron'd mind to please,
And from her fleshy seat to draw

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll,
Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law,
The captivated soul.

III. 1.

Genius, from thy starry throne,
High above the burning zone,

In radiant robe of light array'd,

Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,
His melancholy moan.

He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse

To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. Thou gav'st to him, with treble force to feel The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn. And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride.

V.

The drowsy night-watch has forgot
To call the solemn hour;

Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep,
While I in vain, capricious Sleep,

Invoke thy tardy power;

And restless lie,

With unclos'd eye,

And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.

GENIUS,

AN ODE..

I. 1.

MANY there be, who, through the vale of life,
With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go,
While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife
Awakes them not to woe.

By them unheeded, carking Care,
Green-ey'd Grief, and dull Despair;
Smoothly they pursue their way,

With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death.

II. 1.

But ah! a few there be whom griefs devour,
And weeping Woe, and Disappointment keen,
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour,

And self-consuming Spleen.

And these are Genius' favourites: these
Know the thought-thron'd mind to please,
And from her fleshy seat to draw

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll,
Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law,
The captivated soul.

III. 1.

Genius, from thy starry throne,
High above the burning zone,

In radiant robe of light array'd,

Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made,
His melancholy moan.

He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows,

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse

To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. Thou gav'st to him, with treble force to feel The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn. And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON.

I.

MILD orb, who floatest through the realm of night,
A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild,
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light,

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguil'd.
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat,
Nocturnal Study's still retreat,

It casts a mournful melancholy gleam,
And through my lofty casement weaves,
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves,

An intermingled beam.

II.

These feverish dews that on my temples hang,
This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame:
These the dread signs of many a secret pang,

These are the meed of him who pants for fame! Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul; Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high;

My lamp expires;-beneath thy mild control,
These restless dreams are ever wont to fly.

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast
Sooth these discordant tones to rest,

And breathe the soul of peace;

Mild visitor, I feel thee here,

It is not pain that brings this tear,
For thou hast bid it cease.