Feeling and fancy, wit and reason, Where now such union can I find, Seek the world through--save his--whose treason 'Gainst love hath slain me? Oswald's mind Blends all these charms; unless I dream'd He was the wonder he but seem'd. How, then, to others should I speak? In whom confide? what subjects seek? What end, aim, interest remains? The sweetest joys, the bitterest pains, Already known, what should I fear? Or what expect? before me cast A future changeless, wan, and drear, As but the spectre of my past! Why, why is happiness so brief? Life's weeds so strong, its flowers so frail? Is nature's natural order grief? Unwonted pain soon finds relief When its strange throes our frames assail-- Joy to the soul's less usual: there The habitual state is this despair. How mutable the world appears Where nothing lasts, but pain and tears![2] Another life! another life That is my hope! but still such force Hath this we bear, that we demand In heaven the same rebellious band Of passions that _here_ caused our strife. The northern zealots paint the shade Still hunting, with his hound and horse, The phantom stag, through cloudy glade; Yet dare we call such shapes unreal? Naught here is sure save that Distress-- Whose power all suffer who can feel-- Keeps _her_ unpitying promises! I dream of immortality! No more of that which man can give; Once in the future did I live, The present seem'd too old for me.[3] All I now ask of Him on high, Is, that my heart may never die! Father! the offering and the shrine A mortal spurns; with grace divine, Deign to receive--'tis thine!--'tis thine! I know my days will be but few; That thought restores a sense of rest: 'Tis sweet to feel, as now I do, Death draw Grief's barb from out my breast. 'Tis Superstition's sad retreat, More than the home of pious trust; Devotion to the blest is sweet.-- What gratitude to the All Just Ought Oswald's wife to feel! O God, she must. And yet misfortune oft improves, Corrects us, teaches us to weigh Our errors with our sufferings: they Are wedded: we repent the loves Of earth, when salutary time And solitude inspires love more sublime. 'Tis this I need, ere yet I can fulfil A tranquil voyage to life more tranquil still:-- What innocence is in the thoughts of those About to leave this life of passion's woes! The secret which not genius' self can share, The enigma, may it be reveal'd to prayer? May not some simple thought, by reverie Full oft approach'd, disclose the mystery?