Page:The Sceptic.pdf/4

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Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared— Proud child of reason! how art thou prepared? When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow'd, And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain With the bright images of pleasure's train?

Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathom'd grave! Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, She who, like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all? Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush'd the only voice whoso angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!

For she was born beyond the stars to soar, And kindling at the source of life, adore; Thou could'st not, mortal! rivet to the earth Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth; She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee.

Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft, But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left, And, haply, one whose strong affection's power Unchanged may triumph through misfortune’s hour,