SICKNESS. LOOK where he comes-in this embow'r'd alcove Stand close conceal'd, and see a statue move: Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below, Interpret to the marking eye distress, Such as its symptoms can alone express. That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue Could argue once, could jest or join the song, Could give advice, could censure or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend, Renounc'd alike its office and its sport, Its brisker and its graver strains fall short; Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway, And, like a summer-brook, are past away. This is a sight for pity to peruse, Till she resemble faintly what she views, Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Pierc'd with the woes that she laments in vain. 1 This, of all maladies that man infest, On pangs enforc'd with God's severest stroke. But, with a soul that ever felt the sting Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing: Not to molest, or irritate, or raise A laugh at his expence, is slender praise; He that has not usurp'd the name of man Does all, and deems too little all, he can, T'assuage the throbbings of the fester'd part, And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart, "Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, Forg'ry of fancy, and a dream of woes; Man is an harp whose chords elude the sight, Nor view of waters turning busy mills, Can call up life into his faded eye, That passes all he sees unheeded by: No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, No cure for such, till God who makes them, heals. A father's frown, and kiss his chast'ning hand: The stars that sprinkled o'er the vault of night, Seem drops descending in a show'r of light, Shine not, or undesir'd and hated shine, Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine. Yet seek him, in his favour life is found, All bliss beside a shadow or a sound: Then heav'n, eclips'd so long, and this dull earth, And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice; ODE TO PEAСЕ. 1. COME, peace of mind, delightful guest, Return and make thy downy nest Once more in this sad heart! Nor riches I, nor pow'r, pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view; We therefore need not part. 2. Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From av'rice and ambition free, And pleasure's fatal wiles? For whom, alas! dost thou prepare The banquet of thy smiles? |