Written under a great Depression of Spirits, upon viewing the artful and insincere raised to the heighth of…

Grant me, ye pow'rs! from life the wish'd release, And sooth my passage to the realms of peace; This troubled mind to envied rest compose, That feels its own, but bleeds for others woes; That knows no sordid, no ignoble aim, Or basely triumphs in another's shame; But glows to find, tho' small his share of bliss, That some there are who boast more happiness. 'Tis not for me to crave a longer date, Who daily bends beneath the blasts of fate; For whom the sun darts not one chearful ray, Or gilds with joy the orient face of day: For happier youths, let vernal roses bloom— Mine be the dreary regions of the Tomb:—