Triumph of Old Age.

AN ELEGIAC POEM.

CANTO II.

Personal Attractions.

GRIEF loves that weeping, whose indulgence brings 1
Delicious pleasure to the feeling soul,

To ease the anguish of the sharpest stings,
And calm our tumults with its soft controul.

For tears, delightful as the pearly dew,

That decks the verdure of the rising morn, Mingle with fancy, and restore to view

Those lovely images which death has torn.

Who would forego a pleasure thus deriv'd,
And let his heart in apathy congeal?
Who would of warm emotions be depriv'd,
And shed no tears,-because he could not feel?

And who is there of those who cannot weep,
When feeling strongly in the lab'ring breast,
But owns the wound is more severe and deep,
Whose pang is left to rankle when supprest?

For there are some whom scenes of death have steel'd,
Or are perhaps too fearful to reflect ;

They have no feelings, or they are conceal'd,
That they may boast of manlier intellect.

Nor less mistaken in their plan are those
That fly from sense, and labour to forget,

As if a dull oblivion of their woes,

Were better than the solace of regret,

I grant 'tis unavailing; yet I love

The weakness, not asham'd to shed a tear, And call the aid of memory, to rove

O'er scenes now vanish'd, but for ever dear.

'Tis this inspires the elegiac strain,

And bids the friend perform the poet's part;

"Tis this affords me vigour to complain,

And smoothes the verse when coming from the heart.

It needs not to invoke the fabled Nine,

(For solemn truth, not fiction, guides my pen,) To tell of virtue, which, almost divine, Reflected lustre on the paths of men.

These lines, unfeign'd, and only what they seem,
Dwell fondly on the praises of the dead;
For when thou, Lady, art the copious theme,
Tho' much is written, more remains unsaid,

Think not that friendship makes my reason blind,
Or that my numbers will admit no proof,
When recollections now refer the mind
To scenes beneath thy hospitable roof,

But what avails it, since the pensive thought
Derives affliction from the present view?
And ev'ry object seems as strangely fraught
With something that imparts a sombre hue.

What if I see thee in that fav'rite room, 2
Where oft I heard thy converse with delight?
The spot has lost attraction, and its gloom
Serves only to disturb the aching sight.

That empty chair was once thy fav'rite chair,
That corner too, the corner that was lov'd;
This chair, when friends were ask'd to draw it near,
Was the sure signal they were most approv'd.

The chair was sacred, and for them alone,
In which to sit unbidden had been rude,
And something like a coldness had been shown,
To one who would unthinkingly intrude.

That lengthen'd sofa in a trim so neat,

Tho' vacant now, to friendship was apply'd, When younger fav'rites took the bidden seat, And each was closely plac'd on either side.

The sprightly glances would then quickly roll,
As turning round on this and then on that,
While speech disclos'd the rapture of the soul,---
Ah me! can I forget who thus have sat?