Resignation Pt 1

The days how few, how short the years
    Of man's too rapid race!
  Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,
    A shorter in its place.

  They who the longest lease enjoy,
    Have told us with a sigh,
  That to be born seems little more
    Than to begin to die.

  Numbers there are who feel this truth
    With fears alarm'd; and yet,
  In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
    This weighty truth forget:

  And am not I to these akin?
    Age slumbers o'er the quill;
  Its honour blots, whate'er it writes,
    And am I writing still?

  Conscious of nature in decline,
    And languor in my thoughts;
  To soften censure, and abate
    Its rigour on my faults

  Permit me, madam! ere to you
    The promis'd verse I pay,
  To touch on felt infirmity,
    Sad sister of decay.

  One world deceas'd, another born,
    Like Noah they behold,
  O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows,
    Too many suns have roll'd:

  Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd
    His second world to see:
  My second world, though gay the scene,
    Can boast no charms for me.

  To me this brilliant age appears
    With desolation spread;
  Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd,
    Whilst life was life, are dead;

  And with them died my joys; the grave
    Has broken nature's laws;
  And clos'd, against this feeble frame,
    Its partial cruel jaws;

  Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life!
    A cloud impairs my sight;
  My weak hand disobeys my will,
    And trembles as I write.

  What shall I write? Thalia, tell;
    Say, long abandon'd muse!
  What field of fancy shall I range?
    What subject shall I choose?

  A choice of moment high inspire,
    And rescue me from shame,
  For doting on thy charms so late,
    By grandeur in my theme.

  Beyond the themes, which most admire,
    Which dazzle, or amaze,
  Beyond renown'd exploits of war,
    Bright charms, or empire's blaze,

  Are themes, which, in a world of woe
    Can best appease our pain;
  And, in an age of gaudy guilt,
    Gay folly's flood restrain;

  Amidst the storms of life support
    A calm, unshaken mind;
  And with unfading laurels crown
    The brow of the resign'd.

  O resignation! yet unsung,
    Untouch'd by former strains;
  Though claiming every muse's smile,
    And every poet's pains,

  Beneath life's evening, solemn shade,
    I dedicate my page
  To thee, thou safest guard of youth!
    Thou sole support of age!

  All other duties crescents are
    Of virtue faintly bright,
  The glorious consummation, thou!
    Which fills her orb with light:

  How rarely fill'd! the love divine
    In evils to discern,
  This the first lesson which we want,
    The latest, which we learn;

  A melancholy truth! for know,
    Could our proud hearts resign,
  The distance greatly would decrease
    'Twixt human and divine.

  But though full noble is my theme,
    Full urgent is my call
  To soften sorrow, and forbid
    The bursting tear to fall:

  The task I dread; dare I to leave
    Of humble prose the shore,
  And put to sea? a dangerous sea?
    What throngs have sunk before!

  How proud the poet's billow swells!
    The God! the God! his boast:
  A boast how vain! What wrecks abound!
    Dead bards stench every coast.

  What then am I? Shall I presume,
    On such a moulten wing,
  Above the general wreck to rise,
    And in my winter, sing;

  When nightingales, when sweetest bards
    Confine their charming song
  To summer's animating heats,
    Content to warble young?

  Yet write I must; a lady(49) sues;
    How shameful her request!
  My brain in labour for dull rhyme!
    Hers teeming with the best!

  But you a stranger will excuse,
    Nor scorn his feeble strain;
  To you a stranger, but, through fate,
    No stranger to your pain.

  The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends,
    His old wound bleeds anew;
  His sorrows are recall'd to life
    By those he sees in you;

  Too well he knows the twisting strings
    Of ardent hearts combin'd
  When rent asunder, how they bleed,
    How hard to be resign'd:

  Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed;
    The pang you feel, he felt;
  Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids
    His heart at yours to melt.

  But what can heart, or head, suggest?