But that you may not think the good passages of this poet are only
scattered unequally through his poems; take some entire ones—or nearly
so.
What sullen star rul’d my untimely birth,
That would not lend my days one hour of mirth?
How oft’ have these bare knees been bent to gain
The slender alms of one poor smile in vain?
How often, tir’d with the fastidious light,
Have my faint lips implor’d the shades of night?
How often have my nightly torments pray’d
For ling’ring twilight, glutted with the shade?
Day worse than night, night worse than day appears,
In sighs I spend my nights, my days in tears:
I moan unpity’d, groan without relief,
There is no end nor measure of my grief.
The smiling flow’r salutes the day; it grows
Untouch’d with care; it neither spins nor sows:
O that my tedious life were like this flow’r,
Or freed from grief, or finish’d with an hour:
Why was I born? why was I born a man?
And why proportion’d by so large a span?
Or why suspended by the common lot,
And being born to die, why die I not?
Ah me! why is my sorrow-wasted breath
Deny’d the easy privilege of death?
The branded slave, that tugs the weary oar,
Obtains the sabbath of a welcome shore.
His ransom’d stripes are heal’d; his native soil
Sweetens the mem’ry of his foreign toil:
But ah! my sorrows are not half so blest;
My labour finds no point, my pains no rest.
* * * * *
Thou just observer of our flying hours,
That with thy adamantine fangs, devours
The brazen mon’ments of renowned kings,
Doth thy glass stand? or be thy moulting wings
Unapt to flie? if not, why dost thou spare
A willing breast; a breast that stands so fair?
A dying breast, that hath but only breath
To beg the wound, and strength to crave a death?
O that the pleased heav’ns would once dissolve
These fleshly fetters, that so fast involve
My hamper’d soul; then would my soul be blest
From all those ills, and wrap her thoughts in rest!
* * * * *