4 The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night. No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe, While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
5 Oh! baneful cause, oh! fatal morn, Accursed to ages yet unborn! The sons against their father stood, The parent shed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, The victor's soul was not appeased: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames, and murdering steel!
6 The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath, The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend, And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
7 While the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate, Within my filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathising verse shall flow: Mourn, hapless Caledonia! mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
1 When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire; And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away!
2 But had the nymph possess'd with these Thy softer, chaster power to please, Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth--
3 The worm of grief had never prey'd On the forsaken love-sick maid; Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame.
1 Where now are all my flattering dreams of joy? Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest; Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye, Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast.
2 Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call, With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour; Lead beauty through the mazes of the ball, Or press her, wanton, in Love's roseate bower.
3 For me, no more I'll range the empurpled mead, Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around, Nor wander through the woodbine's fragrant shade, To hear the music of the grove resound.
4 I'll seek some lonely church, or dreary hall, Where fancy paints the glimmering taper blue, Where damps hang mouldering on the ivied wall, And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew:
