When, at the dim close of day, The Captive loves alone to stray Along the haunts recluse and rude Of sorrow and of solitude; When he sits with moveless eye To mark the lingering radiance die, And lets distemper'd Fancy roam Amid the ruins of his home,-- Oh give to him the flowing bowl, Bid it renovate his soul; The bowl shall better thoughts bestow, And lull to rest his wakeful woe, And Joy shall bless the evening hour, And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror. When the wearying cares of state Oppress the Monarch with their weight, When from his pomp retir'd alone He feels the duties of the throne, Feels that the multitude below Depend on him for weal or woe; When his powerful will may bless A realm with peace and happiness, Or with desolating breath Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death: Oh give to him the flowing bowl, Bid it humanize his soul; He shall not feel the empire's weight, He shall not feel the cares of state, The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, And Nations live and prosper from his smile. Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd the song; Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng; Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid, On every cheek a smile applauding play'd; The rival Bard advanced, he struck the string, And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King. Why should the wearying cares of state Oppress the Monarch with their weight? Alike to him if Peace shall bless The multitude with happiness; Alike to him if frenzied War Careers triumphant on the embattled plain, And rolling on o'er myriads slain, With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car. What tho' the tempest rage! no sound Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne, And the red flash that spreads destruction round, Reflects a glorious splendour on the Crown. Where is the Man who with ennobling pride Beholds not his own nature? where is he Who but with deep amazement awe allied Must muse the mysteries of the human mind, The miniature of Deity. For Man the vernal clouds descending Shower down their fertilizing rain, For Man the ripen'd harvest bending Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain. He spreads the sail on high, The rude gale wafts him o'er the main; For him the winds of Heaven subservient blow, Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow, He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below! Where is the King who with elating pride Sees not this Man--this godlike Man his Slave? Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side, Alike the wife, alike the brave With timid step and pale, advance, And tremble at the royal glance; Suspended millions watch his breath Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.