FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle
not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitend hill and plain
And is no more; drop like
the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
THERES not a nook within this solemn Pass
But were an apt confessional for one
by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Witherd at eve. From
scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it mid Natures old felicities,
rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouchd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
a golden perch of aspen spray
(Octobers workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee
Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The minds least generous wish a mendicant
naught but what thy happiness could spare.
Speakthough this soft warm heart, once free to hold
thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken
birds-nest filld with snow
Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine
Speak, that my torturing doubts their
end may know
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