THE
TRIUMPH
OF
MELANCHOLY
.
BY
THE
SAME
.
MEMORY
,
be
still
!
why
throng
upon
the
thought
These
scenes
so
deeply
stain'd
with
Sorrow's
die
?
Is
there
in
all
thy
stores
no
chearful
draught
,
To
brighten
yet
once
more
in
Fancy's
eye
?
Yes
—
from
afar
a
landscape
seems
to
rise
,
Embellish'd
by
the
lavish
hand
of
Spring
;
Thin
gilded
clouds
float
lightly
o'er
the
skies
,
And
laughing
Loves
disport
on
fluttering
wing
.
How
blest
the
youth
in
yonder
valley
laid
!
What
smiles
in
every
conscious
feature
play
!
While
to
the
murmurs
of
the
breezy
glade
His
merry
pipe
attunes
the
rural
lay
.
Hail
Innocence
!
whose
bosom
all
serene
Feels
not
as
yet
th'
internal
tempest
roll
:
O
!
ne'er
may
Care
distract
that
placid
mien
!
Ne'er
may
the
shades
of
Doubt
o'erwhelm
thy
soul
!
Vain
wish
!
for
lo
,
in
gay
attire
conceal'd
Yonder
she
comes
!
the
heart-enflaming
fiend
!
(
Will
no
kind
power
the
helpless
stripling
shield
!
)
Swift
to
her
destin'd
prey
see
Passion
bend
!
O
smile
accurst
,
to
hide
the
worst
designs
!
Now
with
blithe
eye
she
wooes
him
to
be
blest
;
While
round
her
arm
unseen
a
serpent
twines
—
And
lo
,
she
hurls
it
hissing
at
his
breast
!
And
instant
,
lo
,
his
dizzy
eye-ball
swims
Ghastly
,
and
reddening
darts
a
frantic
glare
;
Pain
with
strong
grasp
distorts
his
writhing
limbs
,
And
Fear's
cold
hand
erects
his
frozen
hair
.
Is
this
,
O
Life
,
is
this
thy
boasted
prime
!
And
does
thy
spring
no
happier
prospect
yield
!
Why
should
the
sun-beam
pain
thy
glittering
clime
,
When
the
keen
mildew
desolates
the
field
!
How
Memory
pains
!
Let
some
gay
theme
beguile
The
musing
mind
,
and
soothe
to
soft
delight
:
Ye
images
of
Woe
,
no
more
recoil
;
Be
life's
past
scenes
wrapt
in
oblivious
night
.
Now
when
fierce
Winter
,
arm'd
with
wasteful
power
,
Heaves
the
wild
deep
that
thunders
from
afar
:
How
sweet
to
sit
in
the
sequester'd
bower
,
To
hear
,
and
but
to
hear
,
the
mingling
war
!
Ambition
here
displays
no
gilded
toy
,
That
tempts
on
desperate
wing
the
soul
to
rise
;
Nor
Pleasure's
paths
to
wilds
of
Woe
decoy
,
Nor
Anguish
lurks
in
Grandeur's
proud
disguise
.
Oft
has
Contentment
chear'd
this
lone
abode
With
the
mild
languish
of
her
smiling
eye
;
Here
Health
in
rosy
bloom
has
often
glow'd
,
While
loose-rob'd
Quiet
stood
enamour'd
by
.
Even
the
storm
lulls
to
more
profound
repose
;
The
storm
these
humble
walls
assails
in
vain
:
The
shrub
is
shelter'd
,
when
the
whirlwind
blows
,
While
the
oak's
mighty
ruin
strows
the
plain
.
Blow
on
,
ye
winds
!
thine
,
Winter
,
be
the
skies
,
And
toss
th'
infuriate
surge
,
and
vales
lay
waste
:
Nature
thy
temporary
rage
defies
;
To
her
relief
the
gentler
Seasons
haste
.
Thron'd
in
her
emerald
car
,
see
Spring
appear
!
(
As
Fancy
wills
the
landscape
starts
to
view
)
Her
emerald
car
the
youthful
Zephyrs
bear
,
Fanning
her
bosom
with
their
pinions
blue
.
Around
the
jocund
Hours
are
fluttering
seen
.
And
lo
,
her
rod
the
rose-lip'd
Power
extends
!
And
lo
,
the
lawns
are
deck'd
in
living
green
,
And
Beauty's
bright-ey'd
train
from
Heaven
descends
!
Haste
,
happy
days
,
and
make
all
Nature
glad
—
But
will
all
Nature
joy
at
your
return
?
O
can
ye
chear
pale
Sickness'
gloomy
bed
,
Or
dry
the
tears
that
bathe
th'
untimely
urn
?
Will
ye
one
transient
ray
of
gladness
dart
,
Where
groans
the
dungeon
to
the
captive's
wail
?
To
ease
tir'd
Disappointment's
bleeding
heart
,
Will
all
your
stores
of
softening
balm
avail
?
When
stern
Oppression
,
in
his
harpy-fangs
,
From
Want's
weak
grasp
the
last
sad
morsel
bears
,
Can
ye
allay
the
dying
parent's
pangs
,
Whose
infant
craves
relief
with
fruitless
tears
?
For
ah
!
thy
reign
,
Oppression
,
is
not
past
.
Who
from
the
shivering
limbs
the
vestment
rends
?
Who
lays
the
once
rejoicing
village
waste
,
Bursting
the
ties
of
lovers
and
of
friends
?
But
hope
not
,
Muse
,
vain-glorious
as
thou
art
,
With
the
weak
impulse
of
thy
humble
strain
,
Hope
not
to
soften
Pride's
obdurate
heart
,
When
ERROLL's
bright
example
shines
in
vain
.
Then
cease
the
theme
.
Turn
,
Fancy
,
turn
thine
eye
,
Thy
weeping
eye
,
nor
further
urge
thy
flight
;
Thy
haunts
,
alas
!
no
gleams
of
joy
supply
,
Or
transient
gleams
that
flash
and
sink
in
night
.
Yet
fain
the
mind
its
anguish
would
forego
.
Spread
then
,
historic
Muse
,
thy
pictur'd
scroll
;
Bid
thy
great
scenes
in
all
their
splendor
glow
,
And
rouse
to
thought
sublime
th'
exulting
soul
.
What
mingling
pomps
rush
on
th'
enraptur'd
gaze
!
Lo
,
where
the
gallant
navy
rides
the
deep
!
Here
glittering
towns
their
spiry
turrets
raise
,
There
bulwarks
overhang
the
shaggy
steep
.
Bristling
with
spears
,
and
bright
with
burnish'd
shields
.
Th'
embattled
legions
stretch
their
long
array
;
Discord's
red
torch
,
as
fierce
she
scours
the
fields
,
With
bloody
tincture
stains
the
face
of
day
.
And
now
the
hosts
in
silence
wait
the
sign
:
Keen
are
their
looks
whom
Liberty
inspires
:
Quick
as
the
Goddess
darts
along
the
line
,
Each
breast
impatient
burns
with
noble
fires
.
Her
form
how
graceful
!
in
her
lofty
mien
The
smiles
of
Love
stern
Wisdom's
frown
controul
;
Her
fearless
eye
,
determin'd
tho'
serene
,
Speaks
the
great
purpose
,
and
th'
unconquer'd
soul
.
Mark
,
where
Ambition
leads
the
adverse
band
,
Each
feature
fierce
and
haggard
,
as
with
pain
!
With
menace
loud
he
cries
,
while
from
his
hand
He
vainly
strives
to
wipe
the
crimson
stain
.
Lo
,
at
his
call
,
impetuous
as
the
storms
,
Headlong
to
deeds
of
death
the
hosts
are
driven
;
Hatred
to
madness
wrought
each
face
deforms
,
Mounts
the
black
whirlwind
,
and
involves
the
heaven
.
Now
,
Virtue
,
now
thy
powerful
succour
lend
,
Shield
them
for
Liberty
who
dare
to
die
—
Ah
!
Liberty
,
will
none
thy
cause
befriend
!
Are
those
thy
sons
,
thy
generous
sons
that
fly
!
Not
Virtue's
self
,
when
Heaven
its
aid
denies
,
Can
brace
the
loosen'd
nerves
,
or
warm
the
heart
;
Not
Virtue's
self
can
still
the
bursts
of
sighs
,
When
festers
in
the
soul
Misfortune's
dart
.
See
,
where
by
Terror
and
Despair
dismay'd
The
scattering
legions
pour
along
the
plain
!
Ambition's
car
,
in
bloody
spoils
array'd
,
Hews
its
broad
way
,
as
Vengeance
guides
the
rein
.
But
who
is
he
,
that
,
by
yon
lonely
brook
Such
,
according
to
Plutarch
,
was
the
scene
of
Brutus's
death
.
,
With
woods
o'erhung
,
and
precipices
rude
,
Lies
all
abandon'd
,
yet
with
dauntless
look
Sees
streaming
from
his
breast
the
purple
flood
?
Ah
,
Brutus
!
ever
thine
be
Virtue's
tear
!
Lo
,
his
dim
eyes
to
Liberty
he
turns
,
As
scarce
supported
on
her
broken
spear
O'er
her
expiring
son
the
Goddess
mourns
.
Loose
to
the
wind
her
azure
mantle
flies
,
From
her
dishevell'd
locks
she
rends
the
plume
;
No
lustre
lightens
in
her
weeping
eyes
,
And
on
her
tear-stain'd
cheek
no
roses
bloom
.
Meanwhile
the
world
,
Ambition
,
owns
thy
sway
,
Fame's
loudest
trumpet
labours
with
thy
name
;
For
thee
,
the
Muse
awakes
her
sweetest
lay
,
And
Flattery
bids
for
thee
her
altars
flame
.
Nor
in
life's
lofty
bustling
sphere
alone
,
The
sphere
where
monarchs
and
where
heroes
toil
,
Sink
Virtue's
sons
beneath
Misfortune's
frown
,
While
Guilt's
thrill'd
bosom
leaps
at
Pleasure's
smile
.
Full
oft
where
Solitude
and
Silence
dwell
,
Far
,
far
remote
amid
the
lowly
plain
,
Resounds
the
voice
of
Woe
from
Virtue's
cell
,
Such
is
Man's
doom
;
and
Pity
weeps
in
vain
.
Still
Grief
recoils
—
How
vainly
have
I
strove
Thy
power
,
O
Melancholy
,
to
withstand
!
Tir'd
,
I
submit
;
but
yet
,
O
yet
remove
,
Or
ease
the
pressure
of
thy
heavy
hand
!
Yet
for
a
while
let
the
bewilder'd
soul
Find
in
society
relief
from
woe
;
O
yield
a
while
to
Friendship's
soft
controul
!
Some
respite
,
Friendship
,
wilt
thou
not
bestow
!
Come
then
,
Philander
,
whose
exalted
mind
Looks
down
from
far
on
all
that
charms
the
great
;
For
thou
canst
bear
,
unshaken
and
resign'd
,
The
brightest
smiles
,
the
blackest
frowns
of
Fate
:
Come
thou
,
whose
love
unlimited
,
sincere
,
Nor
Faction
cools
,
nor
Injury
destroys
;
Who
lend'st
to
Misery's
moan
a
pitying
ear
,
And
feel'st
with
ecstasy
another's
joys
:
Who
know'st
man's
frailty
,
with
a
favouring
eye
,
And
melting
heart
,
behold'st
a
brother's
fall
;
Who
,
unenslav'd
by
Fashion's
narrow
tye
,
With
manly
freedom
follow'st
Nature's
call
.
And
bring
thy
Delia
,
sweetly-smiling
fair
,
Whose
spotless
soul
no
rankling
thoughts
deform
;
Her
gentle
accents
calm
each
throbbing
care
,
And
harmonize
the
thunder
of
the
storm
.
Tho'
blest
with
wisdom
,
and
with
wit
refin'd
,
She
courts
no
homage
,
nor
desires
to
shine
;
In
her
each
sentiment
sublime
is
join'd
To
female
softness
and
a
form
divine
.
Come
,
and
disperse
th'
involving
shadows
drear
;
Let
chasten'd
Mirth
the
social
hours
employ
:
O
catch
the
swift-wing'd
moment
while
'tis
near
,
On
swiftest
wing
the
moment
flies
of
joy
.
Even
while
the
careless
disencumber'd
soul
Sinks
all
dissolving
into
Pleasure's
dream
,
Even
then
to
time's
tremendous
verge
we
roll
With
headlong
haste
along
life's
surgy
stream
.
Can
Gaiety
the
vanish'd
years
restore
,
Or
on
the
withering
limbs
fresh
beauty
shed
,
Or
soothe
the
sad
inevitable
Hour
,
Or
Chear
the
dark
,
dark
mansions
of
the
Dead
?
Still
sounds
the
solemn
knell
in
Fancy's
ear
,
That
call'd
Eliza
to
the
silent
tomb
:
With
her
how
jocund
roll'd
the
sprightly
year
!
How
shone
the
nymph
in
Beauty's
brightest
bloom
!
Ah
!
Beauty's
bloom
avails
not
in
the
grave
,
Youth's
lofty
mien
,
nor
Age's
awful
grace
:
Moulder
alike
unknown
the
Prince
and
Slave
,
Whelm'd
in
th'
enormous
wreck
of
human
race
:
The
thought-fix'd
portraiture
,
the
breathing
bust
,
The
arch
with
proud
memorials
array'd
,
The
long-liv'd
pyramid
shall
sink
in
dust
,
To
dumb
Oblivion's
ever-desart
shade
.
Fancy
from
Joy
still
wanders
far
astray
;
Ah
!
Melancholy
,
how
I
feel
thy
power
!
Long
have
I
labour'd
to
elude
thy
sway
—
But
'tis
enough
;
for
I
resist
no
more
:
The
traveller
thus
,
that
o'er
the
midnight
waste
Thro'
many
a
lonesome
path
is
doom'd
to
roam
,
'Wilder'd
and
weary
sits
him
down
at
last
For
the
long
night
,
and
distant
far
his
home
.