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Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well;
Farewell ! and O! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime,
Aid slighted Truth, with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possessed,
Though very poor, may still be very blessed;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

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Now Spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;

Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.

Starting and shivering in th’ inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,

Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,
And count the silent moments as they pass :

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest;

Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest

Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true ;

Led by pale ghosts, I enter death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,

The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains !
Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound,

Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns,
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

There let me wander at the shut of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes;

The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies.

There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary aching eyes;

Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,
Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise,

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Where high the heavenly temple stands, The house of God not made with hands, A great High Priest our nature wears, The Patron of Mankind appears.

He who for men in mercy stood,
And poured on earth his precious blood,
Pursues in heaven his pian of grace,
The Guardian God of human race.

Though now ascended up on high,
He bends on earth a brother's eye,
Partaker of the human name,

He knows the frailty of our frame

our fellow-sufferer yet retains,
A fellow-feeling of our pains;
And still remembers in the skies,
His tears, and agonies, and cries

In every pang that rends the heart,
The Man of Sorrows had a part;

He sympathizes in our grief,
And to the sufferer sends relief.

With boldness, therefore, at the throne, Let us make all our sorrows known, And ask the aids of heavenly power, To help us in the evil hour.

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