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Wild raving to the unfeeling air,
The fetter'd Maniac foams along,
(Rage the burthen of his jarring song) In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his streaming hair.
No pleasing memory left-forgotten quite
Connubial love-parental joy
No sympathies like these his soul employ,But all is dark within, all furious black despair.
Not so the love-lorn Maid,
By too much tenderness betray'd;
Her gentle breast no angry passion fires, But slighted vows possess, and fainting, soft desires.
She yet retains her wonted flame,
All-but in reason-still the same.
Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care, Point out to Pity's tears, the poor distracted Fair. Dead to the world-her fondest wishes crost― She mourns herself thus early lost.
Now, sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings,
She starts-she flies-who dares so rude
"T is he-the MOMUS of the flighty trainMerry mischief fills his brain.
Blanket-rob'd, and antic crown'd,
The mimic monarch skips around;
Big with conceit of dignity he smiles,
And plots his frolics quaint, and unsuspected wiles.
Laughter was there- But mark that groan,
Drawn from the inmost soul!
"Give the knife, Dæmons, or the poison'd bowl,
"To finish miseries equal to your own."
Who's this wretch, with horror wild?
"T is DEVOTION's ruin'd child.
Sunk in the emphasis of grief,
Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief.
Thou, fair RELIGION, wast design'd,
To warm and cheer the human mind,
To point where sits, in love array'd,
The GoD of universal aid,
The GOD, the FATHER of us all.
First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene,
Till SUPERSTITION, fiend of woe,
Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow,
And spread deep shades our view and Heaven be
Drawn by her pencil, the CREATOR stands,
(His beams of mercy thrown aside)
With thunder arming His uplifted hands,
And hurling vengeance wide.
HOPE, at the frown aghast, yet ling'ring, flies,
And dash'd on TERROR'S rocks, FAITH's best dependence lies.
But ah!-too thick they crowd,-too close they
Objects of pity and affright!
Spare farther the descriptive song—
Nature shudders at the sight.
Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale,
But o'er the hapless groupe, low drop COMPASSION'S veil.
UNLESS my fair-one's cheek be near,
To tinge thee with superior red,
How vain, O Rose, thy boasted bloom!
The grape's rich streams be round thee shed,
In shrubs which skirt the scented mead,
Or garden's walk embroider'd gay,
Can the sweet voice of Joy be found-
Unless, to harmonize the shade,
The nightingale's soft-warbled lay
Pour melting melody around?
Thou flow'ret trembling to the gale,
And thou, O cypress! waving slow
Thy green head in the summer air;