A VERSION of part of the 7th Chapter of JOB

As sighs the lab'rer for the cooling shade, When glowing sun-beams scorch the verdant blade, Or as the hireling waits the scanty sum, By the hard hand of painful labour won; So waits my spirit, with anxiety, Death's calm approach, from woe to set me free; For oh! my days are spent in vanity, And nights of sorrow are appointed me. I love not life—it is a burden grown— Distress and Care have claim'd me for their own, And pale Disease, with unrelenting hand, Sports with my sighs, and casts them to the wind. In vain doth night return to bless these eyes; Sighing, I say, "Oh when shall I arise? "When will the night be gone!" Convuls'd with pain, I raise my eyes to heav'n for aid in vain; My heart grows faint—and tossing to and fro, I waste the lonely hours in sullen woe. Or if indeed my eyes should chance to close, And weary nature gain a slight repose, Then am I scar'd with terrifying dreams; Wild shrieks I hear, and melancholy screams, While hideous shapes croud on my troubled sight, Adding new horrors to the glooms of night. Oh! I'm forlorn—in bitterness of soul My cries burst forth—like floods my sorrows roll— Forgot—abandon'd—destitute—alone— No pitying ear inhales the heart-wrung groan, No friendly converse my sad spirit cheers, No feeling breast receives my bitter tears; Gone is each comfort—hope itself is fled; O that I rested with the quiet dead! No glimpse of good mine eyes again shall see, Let me alone—my days are vanity. But soft my griefs, my life is but as wind, Soon will it pass and leave no trace behind; Soon will my aching heart a respite have, Lodg'd in the mould'ring chambers of the grave. As fleets the cloud before the northern blast, So doth the life of mortal beings haste; And I shall sleep in dust—there weary pain Shall never vex my anguish'd frame again: Then tho' adversity, with iron hand, Shall crush the rising honours of the land: Tho' war may waste—and sickness blast in death, The soul that murder spar'd upon the heath, Yet shall I slumber, 'midst the awful roar, For he that sleeps in death shall wake no more.