INVOCATION TO OBLIVION.

TO ROBERT MERRY, ESQ. 

OBLIVION! hail, thou peaceful pow'r! 
Blest offspring thou of life's last hour,
 Who, bending o'er the bed of woe,
 (When Fate ordains the welcome blow,
 Fixing to human griefs a bound,
 Without the church-yard's hollow mound,)
 Calm'st with thy poppy-cinctur'd urn,
 The panting soul long us'd to mourn. 
Alike thy draft Lethean drowns
 The pride of kings, the care of clowns. 
Now Death has chill'd the fever'd mind
 Of him, the scourge of human-kind,
 Who, his insatiate fame to feed,
 Bade all mankind or weep or bleed. 
Lo! at thy shrine the victor bows;
 Thy poppies now entwine his brows:
 Thais no more with angel charms
 Awakes his hope, his breast alarms,
 No longer bids him fondly gaze
 On eyes that mock the diamond's blaze. 
Unheeded now o'er Edward's grave
 Fam'd Cressy's living laurels wave. 
Unconscious of the foliage proud,
 The warrior slumbers in his shroud:
 Yet thou who thus of human pride
 Stem'st the deep o'erflowing tide,
 Who o'er ambition's blazon'd tale
 Indignant throw'st thy sable veil,
 Dost still in mercy soothe the woe
 That bids through life the tear to flow,
 Whom mis'ry urges to his tomb,
 Obtain from thee a welcome doom. 
At ease reclin'd within thy arms,
 And deaf to faction's loud alarms,
 See murder'd Mary calmly sleeps,
 And, blissful change! no longer weeps. 
Embosom'd in some unknown tomb,
 Forgetful of his impious doom,
 Sleeps the sad prince whose hapless fate
 Through time's long course shall want its mate;
 E'en Love, that tyrant of the breast,
 At thy numb touch is hush'd to rest;
 No longer through the Paraclete,
 Of Heloise the last retreat,
 His barbed shafts destructive fly,
 For Abelard but once could die;
 Around their sad united grave
 In vain Love's airy pinions wave;
 The vengeful pow'r, profuse of woes,
 In vain attempts their last repose;
 For all the bliss thy cup contains
 Rewards at length thy former pains. 
Ah! say, Oblivion! deign to say,
 Can earthly song, can mortal lay,
 From forth thy sacred well-fount pure
 For me one blissful draught procure. 
For Mem'ry oft upholds to view
 The varied scenes through life we knew,
 Recalls the blissful hours of yore,
 And pictures joys that are no more. 
Do thou those pangs in pity spare,
 And grant, O grant all Nature's pray'r. 
But, first and chief, Miranda's woes
 Deserve from thee a long repose. 
In pity bid remembrance cease,
 And her's be dark Oblivion's peace. 
Thy real worth they only know,
 Whose hearts are rich in treasur'd woe. 
To such more dear thy torpid sway,
 Than all that meets the blaze of day:
 Yet still in ev'ry age or clime,
 In numbers rude, or flowing rhime,
 From lofty domes that reach the skies,
 From where the lowly cottage lies:
 (Though lost, alas! in empty air,)
 This is the universal pray'r:
 "Howe'er my future fate be cast,
 Do thou, Oblivion, veil the past."