Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete, And full fruition filling all the soul. Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude Of toil; and but that my fond heart Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake, I lay a listless muser, prizing, far Above all other lore, the poet's theme; But for such recollections I could brace My stubborn spirit for the arduous path Of science unregretting; eye afar Philosophy upon her steepest height, And with bold step and resolute attempt Pursue her to the innermost recess, Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. THE PROSTITUTE. DACTYLICS. Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart; Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away, While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings. Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite; Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence; Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence; Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness; Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage! Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here; Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death; None after thee inquires with solicitude; Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down, Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind, Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes. Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering, And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave. Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid. Once wert thou happy--thou wert once innocent; But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness, Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy. Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down: But if a wretch like him sleeps in security, God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt? ODES. TO MY LYRE. Thou simple Lyre! thy music wild Has served to charm the weary hour, And many a lonely night has 'guiled, When even pain has own'd, and smiled, Its fascinating power. Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowd Will little heed thy simple tones; Them mightier minstrels harping loud Engross,--and thou and I must shroud Where dark oblivion 'thrones. No hand, they diapason o'er, Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime; For me, no academic lore Has taught the solemn strain to pour, Or build the polish'd rhyme. Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar; Thou know'st to charm the woodland train; The rustic swains believe thy power Can hush the wild winds when they roar, And still the billowy main. These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, I, still unknown, may live with thee, And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, Beneath the alder tree.