O goddess, Fortune! from thine eyes
The mystic fillet strait unbind!
See what thy random power denies,

And own thyself and Justice blind.

O THOU, whose image, here pourtrayed,

Wakes and inspires the plaintive Muse,

Attend, behold the tribute paid,

Nor song nor tear can she refuse.

Full justly has the artist planned,

In winter's guise, thy furrowed brow,

And justly raised thy feeble hand

Above the elemental glow.

I gaze upon that well known face,
But, ah! beneath December's frost
Lies buried all its vernal grace,

And every charm of spring is lost.

Nor merely on thy trembling frame,
Thy wrinkled cheek and deafened ear,
But on thy fortune, and thy fame,
Relentless winter frowns severe.

Ah! where is now the eager crowd
That once, with fond attention, hung
On every truth divine that flowed,
Improved from thy persuasive tongue!

'Tis gone! it seeks a different road; Life's social joys to thee are o'er;

Untrod the path to that abode

Where hapless penury keeps the door.

And, e'er thy tottering fabric fall,

Sound forth the deeply moral strain.

For never, sure, could bard or sage,
Howe'er inspired, more clearly show,
That all upon this transient stage
Is folly, vanity, or woe.

Bid them at once be warned and taught;Ah, no! suppress the ungrateful tale;

O'er every frailty, every fault,

Oblivion, draw thy friendly veil.

Tell rather what transcendent joy

Awaits them, on the immortal shore, If well they summer's strength employ, And well distribute autumn's store.

Tell them, if winter chill their bloom,

Time shall the happy period bring,

When the dark winter of the tomb

Shall yield to everlasting spring.

VOL. I.

R