Despondency

Care-Worn, and sunk in deep despondency,
I bless the hours that lay my thought at rest:
I woo the covert of a midnight sky,
But sink in feverish dreams by doubt distrest.

The pleasing morning of my early days,
My opening fortune's bright and flattering bloom,
Gone are they all—and mute the voice of praise,
How hard to one, who shone, this cruel doom?

Would I were in some lonely desert born,
And 'neath the sordid roof my being drew;
Were nursed by poverty the most forlorn,
And ne'er one ray of hope or pleasure knew.

Then had my soul been never taught to rise;
Then had I never dreamed of power or fame;
No pictured scene of bliss deceived my eyes,
Nor glory lighted in my breast its flame.

What to the wretch like me this towering mind!
'T is but a curse—a pang that racks the soul.
Better in humble life to be resigned
To ceaseless toil, as round the seasons roll.

Happy the life, that in a peaceful stream,
Obscure, unnoticed, through the vale has flowed;
The heart that ne'er was charmed by fortune's gleam,
Is ever sweet contentment's blest abode.

But can I leave the scenes, my fancy drew
In colours rich as Heaven, and strong as light;
Can I avert from fame my longing view,
And plunge again amid my native night?

Hard is the pang that rends these links away,
And humbling to my soul to rise no more;
How cruel to abandon wisdom's ray,
And find my hopes, my fame, my prospects o'er.

Yes, I must yield—but slowly I retire;
O! can I dim the light that science gave?
O! can I quench my bosom's ardent fire?
Welcome, ye paths! that lead me to my grave.