Ode

written on the first of January, 1794

Come melancholy Moralizer--come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
        With me engarland now
        The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!

Come Moralizer to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,
        For well the funeral song
        Befits this solemn hour.

But hark! even now the merry bells ring round
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,
        This consecrated day,
        To Mirth and Indolence.

Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,
        Whilst her unclouded sun
        Illumes thy summer day,

Canst thou rejoice--rejoice that Time flies fast?
That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?
        That swift the stream of Years
        Rolls to Eternity?

If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,
If Power be thine, remember what thou art--
        Remember thou art Man,
        And Death thine heritage!

Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun
Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,
        Her eye all eloquence,
        Her voice all harmony?

Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale
Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove!
        Winter is dark and cold--
        Where now the charms of Spring?

Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene
In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid
        With stern and frowning front
        Appals the shuddering soul?

And would'st thou bid me court her faery form
When, as she sports her in some happier mood,
        Her many-colour'd robes
        Dance varying to the Sun?

Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road
Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height,
        With anxious gaze survey
        The fruitful far-off vale.

Oh there are those who love the pensive song
To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!
        There are who at this hour
        Will love to contemplate!

For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day
        Is sunk again in night,
        That one day more is gone.

And he who bears Affliction's heavy load
With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows
        The World a pilgrimage,
        The Grave the inn of rest.