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Now is the time for those who wisdom love,
Who love to walk in Virtue's flow'ry road, Along the lovely paths of spring to rove,
And follow Nature up to Nature's Gop.
Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws;
Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; Thus heav'n-taught Plato, trac'd th' Almighty cause,
And left the wond'ring multitude behind.
Thus Ashley gather'd academic bays;
Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise,
And bear their poet's name from pole to pole.
Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn;
My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn,
And gather'd health from all the gales of morn.
And, ev'n when Winter chill'd the aged year,
I wander'd lonely o’er the hoary plain: Tho' frosty Boreas warn'd me to forbear,
Boreas, with all his tempésts, warn’d in vain.
XV. Then, sleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days; I fear'd no loss, my
my store; No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease;
Heav'n gave content and health--I ask'd no more.
Now Spring returns: but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.
Starting and shiv’ring in th' inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclin’d,
And count the silent moments as they pass :
The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest; Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.
And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true.
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.
XXI. Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains !
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless
When sleep sits dewy on the lab'rers eyes;
And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies.
There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary aching eyes ; Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, Till the long night's gone, and the last morn arise.
MICHAEL BRUCE's POEMS.
A PICTURE OF MENTAL DISEASE.
Look where he comes in this embow'r'd alcove
With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire,