Why dost o'er bed and couch recline? Is this thy new delight? Pale visitant, it is not thine To keep thy sentry through the mine, The dark vault of the night: 'Tis thine to die, While o'er the eye The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows fly. Go thou, and bide with him who guides His bark through lonely seas; And as reclining on his helm, Sadly he marks the starry realm, To him thou mayst bring ease: But thou to me Art misery, So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow flee. And, memory, pray what art thou? Art thou of pleasure born? Does bliss untainted from thee flow? The rose that gems thy pensive brow, Is it without a thorn? With all thy smiles, And witching wiles, Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. The drowsy night-watch has forgot To call the solemn hour; Lull'd by the winds, he slumbers deep, While I in vain, capricious sleep, Invoke thy tardy power; And restless lie, With unclosed eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. GENIUS. AN ODE. I. 1. Many there be, who, through the vale of life, With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, While jarring discord's inharmonious strife Awakes them not to woe. By them unheeded, carking care, Green-eyed grief and dull despair; Smoothly they pursue their way, With even tenor and with equal breath, Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, Then sink in peace to death. II. 1. But, ah! a few there be whom griefs devour, And weeping woe, and disappointment keen, Repining penury, and sorrow sour, And self-consuming spleen. And these are Genius' favourites: these Know the thought-throned mind to please, And from her fleshy seat to draw To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, The captivated soul. III. 1. Genius, from thy starry throne, High above the burning zone, In radiant robe of light array'd, Oh! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, His melancholy moan. He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, Pangs that his sensibility uprouse To curse his being and his thirst for praise. Thou gavest to him with treble force to feel The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, And what o'er all does in his soul preside Predominant, and tempers him to steel, His high indignant pride. I. 2. Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life. That Genius visits not your lowly shed; For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife Distract his hapless head! For him awaits no balmy sleep, He wakes all night, and wakes to weep; Or by his lonely lamp he sits At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, In feverish study, and in moody fits His mournful vigils keeps. II. 2.