Love Elegy

The solemn hand of sable suited night Enwraps the silent earth with mantle drear, Thick murky clouds obscure Diana's light, Nor shines one star the dusky scene to cheer.

O'er the sad mansion, hid in awful gloom, The Aethiop darkness spreads her ebon sway, Save that alone, from yonder studious room, The wasting taper sheds a feeble ray.

Now while the tenants of this sacred dome Turn the grave page, or sink to soft repose, Along the Gothic cloisters let me roam, And, deep in thought, the lazy moments lose.

Now breathes the whistling storm a mournful song, And pattering drops the drizzly tempest tell, Whilst Echo roves the lonely vaults among, Sadly-responsive to the midnight bell.

And hark! the pensive owl, with boding strain, Shrieks notes of terror from the learned grove; All! horrid sounds! full well ye sooth my pain, Full well your music greets despairing love.

No longer now around the social bowl I join the jocund laugh, or cheerful lay, But pour in ceaseless groans my love-sick soul, 'Till fades the lamp at bright Aurora's ray.

How, at the fragrant hour of rising morn, Would throbbing transport rush thro' every vein To hear the swelling shout, and echoing horn, Call the gay hunter to the sportive plain!

But, ah! the sprightly joys of youth are fled! In sighs and tears my waining life I wear; So the pale lilly hangs its drooping head, When chilling hoar-frosts blast the vernal year.

Philosophy! thou guardian of the heart, Oh, come! in all thy rigid virtue drest, With manly precepts ease the killing smart, And drive this tyrant from my wounded breast.

Oft would my eye, disdaining balmy sleep, Thy form divine thro' every path explore, Fathom with restless toil each maxim deep, And hang incessant o'er thy awful lore.

Alas! oppos'd to Love, how weak! how frail! Are all the reasons of th' unfeeling sage! No dull advice can o'er his power prevail, Or the keen pangs his dart inflicts asswage.

Yes tyrant, yes, thou must retain thy power, 'Till my torn bosom yields to stronger death, Still must I love, even in that fatal hour, And call on Delia with my latest breath.

And when all pale my lifeless limbs extend, And Fate has seal'd th' irrevocable doom, May then my memory find a faithful friend, To write these numbers on my peaceful tomb.

" Here rests a youth, who love, and sorrow's slave, " Gave up his early life to pining care, " 'Till worn with woe, he sought in this calm grave " A safe retreat from anguish and despair."

So when the stone lies o'er my clay-cold head, If chance fair Delia to the place drew near, With one sad sigh she may lament me dead, And bathe the senseless marble with a tear.