Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, STANZAS WRITTEN WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF JANUARY, 1794, by ROBERT SOUTHEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

STANZAS WRITTEN WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF JANUARY, 1794, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Come melancholy moralizer, come
Last Line: The grave the inn of rest.
Subject(s): Death; Depression, Mental; Happiness; Life; Morality; Mortality; Rest; Dead, The; Mentally Depressed; Mental Distress; Joy; Delight; Ethics


COME melancholy moralizer, come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now
The sepulchre of Time!

Come, moralizer, to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the departed days;
For well the funeral song
Befits this solemn hour.

But hark! even now the merry bells ring round
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,
This consecrated day,
To mirth and indolence.

Mortal! whilst fortune with benignant hand
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,
Whilst her unclouded sun
Illumes thy summer day,

Canst thou rejoice,—rejoice that time flies fast?
That night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?
That swift the stream of years
Rolls to eternity?

If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,
If power be thine, remember what thou art!
Remember thou art man,
And death thine heritage!

Hast thou known love! doth beauty's better sun
Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,
Her eye all eloquence,
All harmony her voice?

Oh state of happiness!—hark how the gale
Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove!
Winter is dark and cold;
Where now the charms of spring!

Sayest thou that fancy paints the future scene
In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stoled maid
With stern and frowning front
Appals the shuddering soul?

And wouldst thou bid me court her fairy form
When, as she sports her in some happier mood,
Her many-coloured robes
Dance varying to the sun?

Ah! vainly does the pilgrim, whose long road
Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height,
With anxious gaze survey
The quiet vale, far off.

Oh there are those who love the pensive song,
To whom all sounds of mirth are dissonant!
They at this solemn hour
Will love to contemplate!

For hopeless sorrow hails the lapse of time,
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day
Is sunk again in night,
That one day more is gone.

And he who bears affliction's heavy load
With patient piety, well pleased he knows
The world a pilgrimage,
The grave the inn of rest.





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