A FRAGMENT. — My soul is out of tune, No harmony reigns here, 'tis discord all: Be dumb, sweet Choristers, I heed you not; Then why thus swell your liquid throats, to cheer A wretch undone, for ever lost to joy, And mark'd for ruin? Seek yon leafy grove, Indulgent bliss there waits you; shun this spot Drear, joyless, vacant, as my wasted soul, Disrob'd of all her bliss: here heave, my heart, Here sigh thy woes away; unheard the groan, Unseen the falling tear; in this lone wild No busy fool invades thy hoarded griefs, And smiles in ignorance at what he feels not. Yet, yet indulge not, list'ning winds may catch Coherent sighs, and waft them far away, Where levity holds high the senseless roar Of laughter, and pale woe, abash'd, retires. Or, shou'd my woes be to the winds diffus'd, No longer mine, once past the quiv'ring lip; Like flying atoms in the sightless air, Some might descend on the gay, grinning herd; But few, how few, wou'd reach the feeling mind! Officious Truth! unwelcome guest to most, Yet I will own thee, and bid Hope good night, Fond, soothing flatterer! Nineteen years are past, Since first I listen'd to her pleasing lore; Ah, me! how bright she painted future scenes, And sweetly spoke of blessings yet unborn! Now, fond Deceiver, where's the promis'd good? But, Oh! thou'rt lovely, and I'll ne'er accuse Or hate thee, tho' we never meet again. With thee, Despair, must I then tread the path Of tedious life, nor cast one look behind, On all the piles of bliss gay Hope had rais'd? But Heaven thought otherwise — O, generous world! Thou who so frankly hold'st th'embitter'd draught, Accept my surly thanks, and few are due Where little is bestow'd. The reasoner raves, Lifts the hard eye, and with long-winded speech, And self-applauding dialect, condemns My mind, thus straying from the trodden path: I heed you not, nor have I time to spin The thread of argument; yet fain wou'd know The ready road to rest. Teach me, ye wise, You who have trod the endless, endless whirl Of measureless conjecture, still upheld By brilliant Fancy's rapture-giving wing: O you! whose spirits rove beyond yon orbs, To find the realms of rest, for such there are, To prove a home when the sad soul shall need it. Imagination wanders, while the eye Seems far extended, tho' the senseless balls Distinguish nought, but, every sense call'd in, Is buried in the dusky, deep recess Of meditation. What's the grand result? Ye studious sages, where's the fix'd abode? Where's that eternal home, beyond the grave? Oh! deign to tell a fellow-wretch like me, Unwilling to be nothing; are not you? Else why this search — and where's the great success? Say, have you found it? can you teach the road Which thither leads? Ah, no! th'accounts brought home Differ so far, millions of Heavens are formed; Each vain philosopher, by pride misled, Presents you a futurity his own; By that secur'd, the self-sufficient sage, Indifferent, views the groupe of anxious souls Searching the path to rest; if his they miss, He swears no other way can e'er be found, And then consigns them o'er to endless woe. Oh! narrow notion of a God supreme! Oh! barbarous portrait of a God all love! I'll think no more. Ye deep-distracting doubts, Bewilder not my soul; for see, the page Of boundless Mercy, and of Christian Faith, Clears up the doubtful future; all is peace, Hope dawns, an earnest of the perfect day.