Where the pheasant[113] roosts at night, Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,[114] Where the evening breezes sigh Solitary, there stray I. Close along the shaded stream, Source of many a youthful dream, Where branchy cedars dim the day, There I muse, and there I stray. Yet, what can please amid this bower, That charmed the eye for many an hour! The budding leaf is lost to me, And dead the bloom on every tree. The winding stream, that glides along, The lark, that tunes her early song, The mountain's brow, the sloping vale, The murmuring of the western gale, Have lost their charms!--the blooms are gone! Trees put a darker aspect on, The stream disgusts that wanders by, And every zephyr brings a sigh. Great guardian of our feeble kind! Restoring Nature, lend thine aid! And o'er the features of the mind Renew those colours, that must fade, When vernal suns forbear to roll, And endless winter chills the soul. [113] "Blackbird."--_Ed. 1786._ [114] "In groves of half distinguish'd light."--_Ib._ GENERAL GAGE'S CONFESSION[115] Being the Substance of His Excellency's Last Conference with his Ghostly Father, Father Francis Compassion!--'tis a stranger to my heart, Or if it comes--unwelcome guest depart,-- Boston, farewell, thy final doom is pass'd, North hears my prayers, and I'm recall'd at last;[116] Sailor on high thy canvas wings display, Howl, ye west winds, and hurry me away; Rise, boisterous clouds, and bellowing from on high, Whisk me along, ye tyrants of the sky-- Quick! let me leave these friendless shores that shed Ten thousand curses on my hated head.-- But why so swift, why ask I gales so strong, Since conscience, cruel conscience, goes along? Must conscience rack my bosom o'er the deep? I live in hell while she forbears to sleep; Come, Father Francis, be my heart display'd, My burden'd conscience asks thy pious aid; Come, if confession can discharge my sin, I will confess till hell itself shall grin, And own the world has found in me again A second Nero; nay, another Cain. _Friar_ Why swells thy breast with such distressing woe? Your honour surely has the sense to know Your sins are venial--trust me when I say Your deepest sins may all be purged away.-- But if misfortunes rouse this nightly grief, Sure Friar Francis can afford relief: I thought e're this that leaders of renown Would scorn to bow to giddy fortune's frown; See yon bright star (the dewy eve begun) Walks his gay round and sparkles in the sun; Faints not, encircled by the ambient blaze, Tho' pestering clouds may sometimes blunt his rays; But come, confession makes the conscience light, Confess, my son, and be absolv'd this night. _Gage_