AN ODE TO INDIFFERENCE.
BE thou, Indifference! my song,
And as life's days glide careless on,
I'll shed no sorrowing tear;
If thou wilt in my bosom dwell,
To every hope I'll bid farewell,
In this terestrial sphere.
Should all my life one tempest be,
Thy smiles, mild nymph! should solace me,
And heal each piercing dart :
Expand then thy protective wing,
Whilst thus to thee I lowly sing,
To tranquillize my heart.
Though chequer'd is this busy scene,
Would'st thou but gently pass between,
To stay the tears that flow;
Care would not hold such powerful sway,
Deforming oft the fairest day
Of youth's inspiring glow.
Then place me in that happy bow'r,
Secure from each unpitying show'r
That chills life's opening morn;
For ah! 'tis thine, with mystic skill,
To mould the bosom to thy will,
Of ev'ry hope forlorn.
Think not that I thy presence seek,
When sorrow's tear bedews my cheeck,
And low I sink opprest;
Thou know'st I've little pleasure known;
Her gilded days too early flown,
Have left an aching breast.
'Tis true we seldom woo thy smile,
Life's joyous moments to beguile;
For ere our bliss we know,
Dark clouds will every prospect gloom,
The future crushing in its bloom,
With swift impending woe.
Sure happiness, with transient ray,
Is like the sun in April's day,
O'erclouded in an hour;
For oft when youthful hope runs high,
The dismal shade, the gathering sky,
Portend a threat'ning show'r.
Indifference at thy calm shrine
I'd bow, though happiness were mine;
For thou canst soothe the soul,
When fate's unkindest frowns appear,
Her mazy wand'rings thou canst cheer,
And every pang control.
Then rest, Indifference! rest with me,
For oft I waft a sigh to thee,
To thee oft breathe a pray'r;
Though ills uunumber'd round me rise,
If thou but hear my pensive sighs,
I'll bid adieu to care.
To peace, to pleasure, and to love,
So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
Sure some enamor❜d orb above
Descends and burns to meet with thee.
This is the breathing, blushing bour,
When all unheavenly passions fly;
Chas'd by the soul-subduing power
Of love's delightful witchery.
O! sacred to the fall of day
Queen of propitious stars appear!
And early rise, and long delay
When Caroline herself is here.
Shine on her chosen green resort,
Where trees the sunward summit crown;
And damask flowers that well may court
An angel's foot to tread them down.
Shine on her sweetly scented road,
Thou star of evening's purple dome;
That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms thy soft exhaling dew;
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue.
Where winnow'd by her gentle air.
Her silken tresses darkly flow,
And fall upon her brows so fair,
Like shadows on the mountain snow.
Thus, ever thus, at day's decline,
In converse sweet to wander far,
O! bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my ruling star.
[At Ednam in the west of Scotland, on the 22d of September, the birth day of the celebrated author of "the Seasons” is kept with all the reverence due to the name of a poet universally admired, and all the enthusiasm of affection for his memory, as a native of that part of the country. The bust of the bard is crowned with laurel, the nymphs and swains foot it on the green to the sound of the tabor, und the day closes with jollity and song. The following Ode was lately written and sung on one of these occasions.]
For the BIRTH-DAY OF JAMES THOMSON,
AUTHOR OF THE "SEASONS."
ALL hail, thou bright, propitious day;
Long shalt thou be to Britian dear;
And may thy dawning orient ray
With lustre crown the circling year.
Awake, sweet Morn, and plume thy wing,
With splendour smile o'er freedom's land,
And thou, Apollo, give to sing,
Thy son's sweet natal morn at hand.
And O! dear, consecrated scene,
Still to his memory sacred be;
Rob'd rich in gay perennial green,
May future ages Ednam see.
On thee may Spring her verdure shed,
Fair as the landscape which he drew,
And Summer all the beauties spread
His Heav'n-taught Muse hath sung so true.
In Autumn may thy fertile vales
Be crown'd with sheaves, rich as his song.
And may each son of thy soft dales
Be as their poet's Winter strong.
Hither let every Scotian bard
Come, and a grateful tribute pay;
And, as a mark of true regard,
Their bays before his altar lay.
And thou, O B-, whose magic pen
A flowery garland did prepare,
Come, honour'd bard, to grace the train,
And all its kind effusions share.
O bring with thee thy Doric reed,
And from it pour a plaintive lay,
Let thy sweet Muse tell vale and mead
That Scotia loves her Thomson's clay.
And you, ye modest virgins fair,
With glowing breast this scene attend,
To crown his name a wreath prepare,
For he was yours and virtue's friend.
He well could warn your sliding hearts,
To guard against the infectious wound,
Which adulation smooth imparts,
When Ev'ning draws her curtain round.
And when on Ednam's verdant top
In modest beauty you appear,
With conscious hearts blush not to drop
For his sweet shade a tender tear.
For tho' in Richmond's hallow'd fane
In peaceful urn his ashes sleep,
Long, long shall every Scotian swain
His name in dear remembrance keep.
And oft as Time returns the day,
The day his birth hath sacred made, Ednam shall wake the fervid lay,
To sooth her native poet's shade.
Fair flowing Tweed, with limpid stream,
O bear its echo o'er the vale,
Bland zephyrs catch the tender theme,
And breathe it soft each balmy gale.
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