ELEGY. (Haste, haste, ye solemn messengers of night)

Haste, haste, ye solemn messengers of night, Spread the black mantle on the shrinking plain; But, ah! my torments still survive the light, The changing seasons alter not my pain. Ye variegated children of the spring; Ye blossoms blushing with the pearly dew; Ye birds that sweetly in the hawthorn sing; Ye flow'ry meadows, lawns of verdant hue, Faint are your colours; harsh your love-notes thrill, To me no pleasure Nature now can yield: Alike the barren rock and woody hill, The dark-brown blasted heath, and fruitful field. Ye spouting cataracts, ye silver streams; Ye spacious rivers, whom the willow shrowds; Ascend the bright-crown'd sun's far-shining beams, To aid the mournful tear-distilling clouds. Ye noxious vapours, fall upon my head; Ye writhing adders, round my feet entwine; Ye toads, your venom in my foot-path spread; Ye blasting meteors, upon me shine. Ye circling seasons, intercept the year; Forbid the beauties of the spring to rise; Let not the life-preserving grain appear; Let howling tempests harrow up the skies. Ye cloud-girt, moss-grown turrets, look no more Into the palace of the god of day: Ye loud tempestuous billows, cease to roar, In plaintive numbers, thro' the valleys stray. Ye verdant-vested trees, forget to grow, Cast off the yellow foliage of your pride: Ye softly tinkling riv'lets, cease to flow, Or swell'd with certain death and poison, glide. Ye solemn warblers of the gloomy night, That rest in lightning-blasted oaks the day, Thro' the black mantles take your slow-pac'd flight, Rending the silent wood with shrieking lay. Ye snow-crown'd mountains, lost to mortal eyes, Down to the valleys bend your hoary head, Ye livid comets, fire the peopled skies— For—lady Betty's tabby cat is dead.