What now is left of all that won The eye of mirth while summer stay'd-- The birds that sported in the sun, The sport is past, the song is done; And nature's naked forms declare, The rifled groves, the vallies bare, Persuasively, tho' silent, tell, That at the best they were but drest Sad mourners for the funeral bell! Now while I spread the venturous sail To catch the breeze from yonder hill, Say, what does all this folly mean? Why grieve to pass the wat'ry scene? Is fortitude to heaven confin'd?-- No--planted also in the mind, She smooths the ocean when she will. But life is pain--what ills must try, What malice dark and calumny, Indifference, with her careless eye, And slander, with her tale begun; Bold ignorance, with forward air, And cowardice, that has no share In honours gain'd, or trophies won. To these succeed, (and these are few Of nature's dark, unseemly crew) Unsocial pride, and cold disgust, Servility, that licks the dust; Those harpies that disgrace the mind; Unknown to haunt the human breast When pleasure her first garden dress'd-- But vanish'd is the shade so gay, And lost in gloom the summer day That charm'd the soul to rest. What season shall restore that scene When all was calm and all serene, And happiness no empty sound, The golden age, that pleas'd so well?-- The Mind that made it shall not tell To those on life's uncertain road; Where lost in folly's idle round, And seeking what shall ne'er be found We press to one abode. [315] This poem was first published in the _Freeman's Journal_, April 18, 1787, with a note "Written at leaving Sandy Hook on a voyage to the West Indies." It is dated Nov. 26, 1785; it was, therefore, written at sea. It was published in the 1788 edition, which the text follows, and omitted from the 1809 edition. A NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS[316] Old Eighty-Five discharg'd and gone, Another year comes hastening on To quit us in its turn: With outspread wings and running glass Thus Time's deluding seasons pass, And leave mankind to mourn. But strains like this add grief to grief;-- We are the lads that give relief With sprightly wit and merry lay: Our various page to all imparts Amusement fit for social hearts, And drives the monster, spleen, away. Abroad our leaves of knowledge fly, And twice a week they live and die; Short seasons of repose! Fair to your view our toils display The monarch's aim, what patriots say, Or sons of art disclose: Whate'er the barque of commerce brings From sister States, or foreign kings, No atom we conceal: All Europe's prints we hourly drain, All Asia's news our leaves contain, And round our world we deal. If falsehoods sometimes prompt your fears, And horrid news from proud Algiers, That gives our tars such pain; Remember all must have their share, And all the world was made for care, The monarch and the swain.