ELEGY 11th. Written during the time of the Author's Retirement from New-York, under Indisposition of Body…

Cease, sad Reflection! here suspend thy sting, The bleeding wound to probe, in pity spare; Can Mem'ry back the squander'd blessing bring, Or raise this mould'ring fabric to repair?

Enough that I, ere yet the hand of time Hath chill'd my frame, or age matur'd the prey, By wasting pains consume, in early prime, From bloom of youth haste swiftly to decay.

Yet, from myself would I those sorrows screen, And dire Conviction from my bosom wrest; Forget the follies of the acted scene, And tear the conscious feeling from my breast.

What now avails, that floods of mant'ling wine, From polish'd goblets pour'd?—a crimson tide! Can gen'rous juice renew the fix'd decline, Or light the glows health's vigor once supply'd?

These nerves, unstrung, their wonted task disclaim, Nor more the sympathetic aid dispense, To shoot the rapture thro' the kind'ling frame, Or waft the transports of the thrilling sense.

When the fair bosom of the op'ning morn, With early blushes streaks the orient sky; I only droop, dejected and forlorn, And mourn amidst the gen'ral gaiety:

Or, if with Eve the dusky shades descend, And trembling Chrystals gleam a partial day; Th' officious light, and quivering beams, offend, And sickly loathings shroud the planet ray.

No more, alert, I join youth's frolic train; This gloomy soul the jovial circle flees; The sounds of joy accost my ear in vain, And social gladness can no longer please.

Relentless Fates, unfeelingly severe, Command each Halcyon prospect to resign; Rase the fond sum of all I e'er held dear, Nor leave a bliss of all I counted mine:

Yet, would I patient stand th' adverse blast, And unrepining meet the destin'd blow; But, ah! th' obtrusive mem'ry of the past, Bounds to my view, and deeper shades my woe.

Still will the busy, speculative mind, Through painful Recollection's tot'ring maze, Spring to the scenes of pleasure left behind, And urge the retrospect to happier days.

So the fond parent, of her hopes bereft, Eyes the pale offspring of her mother pains; Bleeding, surveys the clay-cold reliques left, And clings, in anguish, to the dear remains.

If, in my lonely rambles o'er the plain, Some hind, blythe whistles from his lowly shed, Envying, I hear the artless, jocund strain, And mourn to meet a heart that has not bled.

Alas! sigh I, within that humble Cot, The sturdy peasant tastes unclouded ease; Blest swain! whose haply, more auspicious lot, Bars out Intemp'rance, nor admits disease.

No sly debauch, with sell dissembled art, Lures you, unthinking, to her specious snare; With after pains to rive the sinking heart, And o'er the bosom spread the clouds of care.

In harmless sports, and innocently gay, With placid lapse, and like some mellow'd tale, Smooth flow the gentle hours in smiles away, Calm and unruffled as the ev'ning gale.

Tho' no proud dome, within her fretted halls, Receives the rustic, the unfashion'd guest; From his mean hut, and rudely plaister'd walls, The hind serenely breathes a purer rest.

But, ah! what boots it further to explore, Or draw the picture of some happier state? 'Tis mine to turn life's sorrow'd pages o'er, And scan the edicts of a blacker fate.

Be this my hope, the sole and sure relief, When Nature saints, & trembling meets her close; My parting struggle shall compleat my griefs, And the last pang consign me to repose.