As when a traveller, a long day past In painful search of what he cannot find, At night's approach, content with the next cot, There ruminates, a while, his labour lost; Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords, And chants his sonnet to deceive the time, Till the due season calls him to repose: Thus I, long-travell'd in the ways of men, And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze, Where Disappointment smiles at Hope's career; 10 Warn'd by the languor of life's evening ray, At length have housed me in an humble shed; Where, future wandering banish'd from my thought, And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest, I chase the moments with a serious song. Song soothes our pains; and age has pains to soothe. When age, care, crime, and friends embraced at heart, Torn from my bleeding breast, and death's dark shade, Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire; Canst thou, O Night! indulge one labour more? 20 One labour more indulge! then sleep, my strain! 21 Till, haply, waked by Raphael's golden lyre, Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow, cease; To bear a part in everlasting lays; Though far, far higher set, in aim, I trust, Symphonious to this humble prelude here. Has not the Muse asserted pleasures pure, Like those above; exploding other joys? Weigh what was urged, Lorenzo! fairly weigh; And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still? 30 I think, thou wilt forbear a boast so bold. But if, beneath the favour of mistake, Thy smile's sincere; not more sincere can be Lorenzo's smile, than my compassion for him. The sick in body call for aid; the sick In mind are covetous of more disease; And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well. To know ourselves diseased, is half our cure. When Nature's blush by Custom is wiped off, And Conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, 40 Has into manners naturalized our crimes; The curse of curses is, our curse to love; To triumph in the blackness of our guilt (As Indians glory in the deepest jet), And throw aside our senses with our peace. But grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy; Grant joy and glory quite unsullied shone; Yet, still, it ill deserves Lorenzo's heart. No joy, no glory, glitters in thy sight, But, through the thin partition of an hour, 50 I see its sables wove by destiny; And that in sorrow buried; this, in shame; While howling furies wring the doleful knell; And Conscience, now so soft thou scarce canst hear 54 Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal. Where, the prime actors of the last year's scene; Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume? How many sleep, who kept the world awake With lustre, and with noise! has Death proclaim'd A truce, and hung his sated lance on high?