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THE CHESTNUT TREE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Misshapen seed! Thy uncouth form
Last Line: Bloom in immortal verdure there.
Alternate Author Name(s): Old Simon; S.
Subject(s): Brattleboro, Vermont; Chestnut Trees; Industrial Revolution; Kennicott, Benjamin (1718-1783)


MISSHAPEN seed! thy uncouth form,
Thy rough exterior, sombre dye,
Provoke the careless gazer's scorn
Who notes thy worth, with tasteless eye.

Not thus discerns the truly wise;
He sees a prouder day for thee;
And in thy homely garb espies
The embrio of a mighty tree.

Within my grass plots, scanty bound,
In autumn day I'll bury thee;
There shalt thou lie in sleep profound,
Till winter's surly gloom shall flee.

And soon shall quick'ning Spring prevail,
And Maia spread her splendid bow,
And April breath her tepid gale,
And vegetation's pulse shall flow.

Nature her genial trump shall blow,
And bid her torpid children rise;
The parent voice the slumberers know,
And spring rejoicing to the skies.

Thou too, within thy sombre crust,
Shalt hear the summons to appear:
Thy homely sarcophagus bust
And break the clod, and climb the air.

And I will nurse thy infant days
And tend thee with a gardener's care,
Protect thee from the sun's fierce rays,
And fence thee from the noxious air.

The oft returning summer's sun,
Imagination well can see,
Will foster thee, till thou become
Pride of my plot! a stately tree.

But oh! before that day appears,
Where will thy early friend abide?
Can mortal hope at sixty years
To see thee in thy day of pride?

He, who thy destiny can steer,
As whim or mere caprice incline,
Thy latent spark of life can cheer,
Or cast thee to the grov'ling swine.

He, long before thy day of might,
E're yet thy midmost branches shoot,
Shall seek the grave's long darksome night
Mould'ring in dust beneath thy root.

Whilst thou! aspiring in thy strength,
Shall rear thy giant stock on high,
Wave thy broad branches' mighty length,
And time, and stormy winds defy.

Sad is the page of scripture truth!
"Man's like a flower, and dies as soon;"
A century but compleats thy youth,
And added centuries see thee bloom.

But see! the sorceress Fancy's nigh,
Whose witch'ries oft have truth belied,
And from immense reality
Have lur'd my truant thoughts aside.

The sylph like gypsey lifts the veil,
And future times are clearly seen;
Her mimic crayons seldom fail
With rainbow tints to paint the scene.

She bids me now the landscape view
Where all futurity appears;
To look the lapse of ages through;
The vista of two hundred years.

Misshapen seed! -- aye now I see
The glories of thy future hour!
See thee surmount each rival tree,
And scale the vast Cathedral tower.

For Hope has Fancy's pencil got,
Portray'd the Church and built the tower,
And pointed out the future spot
Of Faith and Apostolic power.

Misshapen seed -- I see again
The future honors to thee paid:
I see approach the unborn train
Who shelter in thy grateful shade.

I see the Dogstar's sultry reign,
I see it pour its fervid ray;
Scorch the fresh verdure of the plain,
And shed "Intolerable day."

I see the languid groups repair,
With lagging steps o'erpress'd with heat;
All shun the pond'rous, noxious air,
Beneath thy shady cool retreat.

Matron and sire, and girl and boy,
The Village's distant progeny,
The dashing belle, and maiden coy,
All seek their fav'rite Chestnut Tree.

The ancient maid and widowed dame
To mourn their sad drear lonesome fate;
The frolic boy to sport his game,
And reverend age to meditate.

Bevies of beauty now display
In all the pride of dress and bloom,
The tasty robe, or headgear gay,
Oft changing like the inconstant moon.

And as the promenade he views
Of fair or brown or bright brunette,
The Ensign smart his files reviews,
And sports his spangled epaulette.

For soldiers then, like soldiers now,
Will oft attract sweet beauty's eye,
And war his conquering crest shall bow,
And at the feet of beauty sigh.

And there the student musing roves;
And business plods, on gain intent;
And his worn limbs tired labour moves;
And usury counts his cent per cent.

For underneath thy spreading shade
All casts of characters are seen,
As if some theatre display'd
Life's varied, shifting, empty scene.

And do but mark that polish'd beau;
See him gallant that stylish fair;
Pinks of the future mode, who show
The coming fashion's taste and air.

And now he bows; she smiles a bow,
Affects to blush, pretends to frown,
Bridles her dimpled chin, and shows
She reigns the toast of half the town.

And now he twirls his glove or cane,
And whispers nothings in her ear;
Whilst she repulses with disdain
The flatt'ries; which she loves to hear.

For ah! what age has yet passed by?
What future age does yet remain?
When sage experience shall deny
That belles coquet, and beaux will feign?

Muslins and mind, clear starched, and prim
Erect in step and head and air,
All apprehension, fear and whim,
There walk the future prudish fair.

See how the obsequious beaux present
Her dropt boquet, or fallen fan;
While she recedes, as to prevent
The upas touch of naughty man.

And affectation too is there;
See how her pretty bosom heaves,
Support her beaux, the swooning fair
Is frightened by the falling leaves!

So timid, soft, and delicate,
The interesting puppet seems;
Thy eddying leaves such fears create,
She falters, faints, and dies -- and screams.

Hark! what loud laughter's giggling tones
Make the grave smile, and prudish stare?
The village Hoyden bouncing comes,
With skip, and jump, and heedless air.

I know her by her tatter'd vest,
Her unkempt hair and ink-stained glove;
Yes, 'tis that romping, tricksey pest,
Whom all must love, and none approve.

Boldly she climbs thy mossy side,
And seeks a seat, regardless how,
Like German dames who palfreys ride,
She swings upon thy waving bough.

But see, that lively laughing throng;
What can have touch'd the merry crowd?
They view the pictures that belong
To an old book, and laugh aloud.

What is the title? let me spy: --
What pictures those which look so queer?
It is "The Ladies' Diary"
With fashions for the present year.

Some virtuoso, grave and shrewd,
This toilet relic has bestow'd,
And in the Twentieth Century shew'd
Of the Nineteenth the grotesque mode.

Our Leghorn straws, and bear skin muffs
And all our dashy modes of dress,
They view, as we the blue starch'd ruffs
Of Scottish James and old Queen Bess.

Again they look, and laugh again;
Then peep, and smile, and giggling stare;
And all their lovely lips exclaim,
"What monstrous frights our grandames were!"

And now the sicklied tribe surrounds
Thy trunk to catch the balmy air;
His hollow cough the hectic sounds;
And dropsey's bloated bulk is there.

There hypochondria starts alarm'd;
And palsy shakes his drooping head;
And gout with crutch and flannel arm'd
Falters his agonising tread.

Corroding cancer, ague chill,
Consumption, with her flatt'ring bloom,
And many an untold human ill,
Which darken life and crowd the tomb.

From age to age, as time shall flee,
Such is the doom of Providence:
Disease and pain and death shall be
Heirlooms of man's inheritance.

But who are those two scowling wights,
With sneering nostrils, ruffled brow?
Who seem to compliment in spite,
And threaten vengeance while they bow.

Associates by the dying bed,
Familiar with disease and pain;
Sure sad lessons daily read
Their petty bick'rings might restrain.

Must learn'd Physicians always jar?
Their science, spite, and skill display?
I had well hoped this wordy war
Would cease before that distant day.

The troubled eye turns with delight
From this degrading, senseless scene,
And gratifies the ravish'd sight,
With the next couple on the green.

For arm in arm they loving walk,
Engaged in converse sweet and bland;
While jest, and smile, and courteous talk
Make their confiding hearts expand.

Sure they are brethren whose sad fate
Has sever'd them for many a year;
Or well tried friends, with joy elate
To meet their long lost inmates here.

And yet, a little hour since,
These friends engaged in verbose war;
With mimic raging eloquence
Were wrangling at the noisey bar.

Ah cunning elves! ye know that strife
Your interest, honor, bliss impede;
Fast friends in walks of social life,
And only foes, when richly fe'd.

Then too shall vice pollute thy shade
And stalking Folly idly roam;
What scene so fair has nature made
Where vice and folly will not come?

But listen to those deep-drawn groans,
Those gnashing teeth, that frenzied tread;
The ruin'd Gamester there bemoans
His fortune, fame, and pleasure fled.

And as Despair, with ghastly grin,
Suggests that death his ills may close,
The wily tempter shows the limb
Where he may end his galling woes.

While fashion's vot'ries flaunting rove,
And wave their jaunty plumes on high,
See there that simple Quak'ress move,
Arresting each contrasting eye.

Why does her dove-dyed habit plain,
Her untrimm'd bonnet white as snow,
Rob garish fashion of its claim,
And rival slattern beauty too?

'Tis neatness! love's attractive lure
Enthralls each heart and chains each eye;
And female grace and manners pure,
And sweet retiring modesty.

In russet garments, beaver brown,
Beside her stalks her sober spouse,
And eyes with pride perhaps unknown,
The costly dress her sect allows.

All vanity he disapproves;
No toilet arts on him intrude;
But firm in noiseless faith he moves,
And stiff in moral rectitude.

The decent, prim, new married pair
Calmly pursue their silent walk;
Nor vainly wound the tortur'd air,
With noisy mirth, or idle talk.

In hearts so temperate, habits calm,
Can love -- impassion'd love reside?
Can its all cheering flame ere warm
The sober bridegroom, placid bride?

Yes! these cold hearts with love will glow;
For love is no sectarian prim;
And heads that hold it sin to bow,
Will, with great reverence, bow to him.

A household God is nuptial love;
His Lares shun the public gaze;
In home's own hearth, and dear alcove,
His incense burns, his altars blaze.

With throbbing temples, filmy eye,
With cheeks now flush'd, now deadly pale,
The beastly drunkard staggers by,
And taints with burning breath the gale.

Wife, children, friends, and parents dear,
Health, wealth, and character forgot;
All that makes life a blessing here;
Sunk in the filthy, driv'ling sot.

Ah worse than madness -- the insane
His reason fled, has guiltless died;
But reason, conscience, both disclaim
Thy wilful, lingering suicide.

Oft, in inebriation's hour,
Reason, the faint resolve shall form;
Oft conscience, with decreasing power,
Shall prompt, and aid thy brief reform.

Alas! how weak the vain control
Of reason, conscience, over sin!
Still thou wilt quaff the poison'd bowl,
Tho' Death flits hov'ring o'er its brim.

So, where old oceans' surges beat,
The flooding tide its purpose gains;
Oft with receding wave retreats,
Then deluges the ruin'd plains.

And now upon thy beaten soil,
See, there the boisterous youngsters come;
Lads of the village, sons of toil,
Whose weekly drudgery is done.

With shout and rout the roistering throng
Enjoy the hour of parting day,
And haul and drive their mates along
To join the rude athletic play.

Some join the football's noisy war;
Or the sly wrestler's art they try;
Run, leap, or pitch the massy bar;
Or send the bounding ball on high.

All hallowed be your manly sport:
On you your Country's hopes abide;
In peace the Union's sure support,
In war, the nation's strength and pride.

With rod elastic, silken line,
The patient angler joins the rout,
And holds on high, with pride sublime,
A glorious string of speckled trout.

With fond prolixity he tells
How oft he trudg'd the sedgy brook,
How oft in vain he tried his spells,
His bobbing cork, and baited hook.

How, where the current rippled by,
When the rain patter'd from the skies,
He, with his well selected fly,
Troll'd, play'd and caught the finny prize.

Sure, since the golden age refin'd,
There never yet to man was sent
Such solace for a vacant mind, --
As vanity so innocent.

But hark! that mimic thunder's sound!
And from thy loftiest, trembling spray,
The robin flutt'ring meets the ground,
And bleeds his little life away.

Thy feather'd partner seeks in vain
His murder'd mate with roving wing;
In vain the unfledg'd nestlings plain
For food the parent bill should bring.

Ah cruel sportsman! deed unbless'd!
Could not thy victim's vesper song
Or varied plumage of his breast,
His summer day of life prolong?

But note that haggard motleid crew,
Parents and children, ragged troop,
Who the gay scene with envy view
And seem to curse each well-dress'd group.

Some manufactory's fetid walls
Have cast the impoverish'd wanderers forth,
Deaf to humanity's loud calls,
To want, to beggary, and to sloth.

Within those walls, from day to day,
The same unvarying task they sped,
To watch the rapid spindles play,
And join th' attenuated thread.

Their scanty wages through the year
Scarcely gaunt hunger's pangs assuage,
While each sad labouring day draws near
To penury and neglected age.

Bereft of education there,
Their offspring prove the land's disgrace,
While tatter'd garments, meagre fare,
Stunt and deform the starv'ling race.

Ah barbarous system! cruel trade;
By art infernal sure design'd
At once to torture and degrade,
To starve the body and the mind.

Some new machine's ingenious art
The laborer's tardy work supplies,
Or o'erstocked market's glutted mart
Their wonted task to them denies.

By the hard hand of gain outcast,
To vice or beggary they flee;
On the humane their mis'ries cast,
Or the Town's cruel charity.

To madness, by their wretched fate,
By hunger, sickness, suff'ring, driven,
They bawl sedition 'gainst the state,
And curse the ways of righteous Heaven.

Blest be our age! and blest our Land!
Whom yet no scenes so foul degrade
And blest the Statesmen, whose firm band
This plague of avarice, has stay'd.

But what arrests each eager eye,
Fixes and strains the aching sight?
While some with prospect glass espy
The neigh'bring mountain's rocky height.

See how they view each jutting rock,
The deep ravines where woodbines creep,
Point where a panting party stop
Or scramble up the craggy steep.

To gather berries, autumn's pride,
Or to inhale a purer air,
A youthful party climb its side
To take their swelt'ring pleasure there.

As up the sinuous path they strain,
The lowly gazer's eye they mock,
Now half expos'd, then hid again,
By ledge or bush or shelving rock.

In toil's most vivid healthy hue
The breathless Nymphs attain the height,
And stand, like roses pearl'd with dew,
Upon the mountain's loftiest site.

On the brisk gale, as rob'd in white,
Their filmy vestures fluttering blow,
Each seems some lovely airy sprite,
Or dazz'ling wreath of mountain snow.

Heard ye, upon the mountain gale,
That anguish'd scream its thrill impart?
Cries of distress the ear assail;
The shriek of horror palls the heart!

The affrighted fair one sees, or hears
The rattle of the vengeful snake;
The anxious beau, to calm the fears,
Shows rustling leaves, or sun-dried brake.

And now the cheerful group descend,
With sliding step the slip'ry mount;
And to each pleas'd, admiring friend
The wonders of their tour recount.

Point out the lofty, giddy height
Which their proud footsteps did attain;
Whence men, to their astonish'd sight,
Seem'd pigmies on the prostrate plain.

Tell what fatigues they underwent
To climb the pinnacle on high;
And how the envious bramble rent
The lace, or shoe bow's silken tie.

How they approach'd the crater dire,
Which once poured forth its lavaed flame,
And only lacks old Etnea's fire
To rival its tremendous fame.

Tell how they view'd the silver mine,
Whose treasures man's research defies,
And how the beaux' attentions shine
More precious in a lady's eyes.

Ah, lovely trav'lers! chatter still;
That sprightly voice, that wond'ring look,
With more delight the heart will fill,
Than many a learned voyager's book.

With clouted sandals, raiment mean,
Bow'd down with pain, and grief, and years,
Sad sample of life's chequer'd scene,
A female pauper now appears.

Her coarse attire, with darns replete,
The extreme of wretchedness displays;
But yet, her manners mild bespeak
That she has seen far better days.

For when her wants are still supplied,
By those who know her piteous case,
The hectic flush of wounded pride
Will tinge her wither'd, pallid face.

And if perchance some sav'ry scrap,
Among the broken meat appears,
It brings the days of plenty back;
She steeps the morsel with her tears.

For she was once a farmer's wife,
Possessed of house and full stor'd barn,
And in the pride of rural life
Was mistress of a well stock'd farm.

And erst upon her ample board
Her rural danties oft she spread,
And from her well replenish'd hoard,
The frequent guest her bounty fed.

She, there, display'd her huswife state;
There, were her snow white napkins seen;
Her rich preserves, and sugar'd cake;
Her tarts, her custards and her cream.

Industrious, frugal, night or noon,
Her huswife skill her household share,
Still at the distaff, or the loom,
Or the full dairy's toilsome care.

And she was charitable too,
And oft reliev'd the neighb'ring poor,
And should the impoverish[ed] trav'ler sue,
He went not empty from her door.

At one "fell swoop," by fate adverse,
Her earthly bliss in ruin lies;
To sadden more the dire reverse,
Her bankrupt husband droops and dies.

Now houseless, friendless, hopeless, poor,
Too old to work, asham'd to beg,
She craves a pittance from the store
Of those her former bounty fed.

The flinty town but ill supply
The dainties sicklied age should share;
Life's comforts they too oft deny
And grudge and stint her meagre fare.

The patient sufferer waits resigned,
'Till life's sad sorrowing scene shall close;
Hopes in the peaceful grave to find
Oblivion of her shame and woes.

For early piety has taught
Her mind above the world to rise,
And faith, with gospel promise fraught
Shows rest and joy beyond the skies.

Neat as new pins our ladies are,
And essenced with Olympian dew,
See that old beau come simp'ring there,
Stale bachelor of forty two.

A busy castle builder he,
Constructing scenes of married life;
The gay day dreamer hopes to see
His blooming, tasty, wealthy wife.

As age comes on with rapid stride,
Furrows his brow, and thins his hair,
He dreams of a more peerless bride
More wealthy, tasty, and more fair.

The blooming girls of early life,
Whose maiden graces oft he woo'd,
Have each become a happy wife,
Or bless'd in vestal maidenhood.

With beardless boys, and girls in teens,
His idle hours he idly spends;
Acts o'er the same unmeaning scene,
Which once amused their matron friends.

Pause, senseless dreamer! think the years
Of age, flit fast in life's decline;
Nor friseur's comb, nor taylor's shears
Arrest the ravages of time.

Soon you'll suspect the quizzing leer,
The laugh suppressed by youth in bloom,
And stripling's wit, and beauty's sneer
Will scout thee from the drawing-room.

Where wilt thou, when thy manhood's flown,
Thy isolated being hide?
Thine is no comfortable home,
No sweet domestic fire side.

No long loved wife, with anxious care,
Consults thy taste, thy woes beguile;
No manly sons thy name shall bear,
No daughters soothe with filial smile.

When deafness, blindness, grief and pain
Mark life's last, lingering wintry stage,
Say, who shall aid thee to sustain
The wayward cares of fitful age?

True, sordid gold from hireling hands
May wring involuntary aid,
But the lone heart in age demands
What hoarded treasures never paid.

It asks the unbidden step of Love
To watch the couch with silent tread;
The uncall'd hand the folds to smooth,
And pillow soft the weary head.

It seeks of Love the patient ear
To hear garrulity's dull tale;
Affection's lips to sweetly cheer
The flagging spirits as they fail.

It asks, and it should richly share,
In sweet, domestic, calm repose;
And for that precious filial care,
Which love alone on age bestows.

Ah what avails to strike the lyre
To the deaf ear with hopes to please?
Or to the dozing, torpid friar
To cast the pearls of nuptial ease?

But note that interesting pair,
With married bliss and love elate;
While each sustains, with constant care,
That lisping infant's tottering gait.

The father's glance, the mother's eye,
Mark how its tiny footsteps move,
And nature shews the stander by
It is their youngest pledge of love.

Their eldest boy, upon the plain,
Sports with the fairy school dame throng,
And gaily rides the father's cane,
Or drives the whirling hoop along.

Father of mercies! sure thy love
The pristine curse did thus assuage,
And made our rising offspring prove
Our joy in youth, our prop in age!

With polished air, in habit plain,
See there that graceful matron move,
Attended by her comely train,
Pledges of youthful widow'd love.

With wealth, and taste and beauty blest,
She liv'd, a happy, youthful wife,
Born to adorn, as all confest
The brilliant scenes of city life.

Her taste, amusements all give place;
To the rude village scene confin'd,
She quits of life the polish'd grace,
To train to worth the infant mind.

Daughters of Fashion! ye who glide
In joy's frail skiff on pleasure's stream,
And daily quaff the dulcet tide,
And sparkle through the tinsell'd scene,

Can the assemblies' bounding train?
Cards, rout, or ball, or Thespian play?
Or Oratorio's lofty strain?
Such solace to the heart convey?

As when the widow'd mother views
Her lovely, rising orphan race,
Sweet girls, and boys whose form renews
The mother's charms, the father's face;

Oft in some solitary hour
Would cruel memory call forth,
With heartless, agonizing power,
Remembrance of a husband's worth;

Oft memory paint the bed of death,
The last embrace, the feeble tone,
The clammy brow, the short'ning breath,
The dying look, the latest groan;

That parting look, which seem'd to say,
"Protect these children of my care,
Quit the vain pleasures of the day,
Let all the mother centre there."

"Yes, sainted spirit! I devote
The time, the talents to me given,
To make them all that thou canst hope
To see on earth, or meet in heaven."

Who is that meagre, studious wight,
Who sports the habit of our days?
And in the reigning mode's despite
His antique coat and vest displays?

In whose gaunt form from head to feet
The antiquarian's air we trace,
While Hebrew roots, and uncial Greek
Plot out the features of his face.

His critic eye is fix'd with glee
On a worm-eaten, smoak dried page,
The time worn paper seems to be
The relic of some long past age.

In sooth! it is the manuscript
Of this poor feeble verse of mine,
Which in despite of taste and wit
Has straggled down to future time.

The Bookworm's features scrawl a smile
While gloating on the musty page;
As we admire some ruined pile,
Not for its worth, but for its age.

The sprawling letters, yellow text,
The formal phrase, the bald stiff style,
The spelling quaint, the line perplext,
Provoke his unaccustom'd smile.

Like Kennicott he cites and quotes,
On illustration clear intent;
And in the margin gravely notes
A thousand meanings, never meant.

Perhaps some studious young divine
May study oft beneath thy bough,
Ambitious in his day to shine,
Like our Right Reverend Bishop now.

In early dawn, or silent noon,
When fops and giggling girls are rare,
He'll quit the fever'd study's room,
And bring his fav'rite volume there.

Some author of Rome's classic age,
Or mitred Father's pious line,
Which like great Raphael's pictured page
Blends human art with things divine.

Some writer whose bright sterling worth
Through the dark rust of age appears,
Like racy wine of generous growth;
Grown racier by a lapse of years.

Some long departed letter'd sage
Whose work does taste and truth impart;
Whose chastely, classic, pious page
Refines the taste and mends the heart.

And as the polished periods flow,
And wisdom's richest boons dispense,
The wondering student learns to know
The charms of pulpit eloquence.

While reverence, love, his heart inflame,
He seeks to know the author sage,
And reads inscribed, thy Donor's name
Right Reverend on the title page.

On that commanding southern mound
From whence the embosom'd hamlet's seen,
A pensive party quit the round
Of pleasure, for Death's solemn scene.

And now the grave yard's turf they tread,
Its devious paths they sorrowing wend,
And seek among the assembled dead
The graves of lover, kindred, friend.

The mould'ring tombs, and stones decay'd
The monitory thoughts create,
As if some herald art display'd
Quaint emblems of life's crumbling state.

The pensive party gather round,
And fix the mournful eye intent,
Where the dispointed stones surround
A tott'ring, ruin'd monument.

A fallen tablet moulders near,
Broken, defac'd, begrim'd with scurf
The shattered fragments now appear,
Half hidden by the encroaching turf.

Tho' the frail tablet's broken line
The honored tenent's name denies,
They know that here embalmed by time
The earliest village pastor lies.

For they have heard their fathers tell
What their forefathers told to them,
And fond tradition knows full well,
The story of the best of men.

That what of good, or kind, or true,
Of morals pure, and faith unfeign'd,
Which his adopted village knew,
His precepts taught, his life explain'd.

And they still read the warning page
Address'd to long departed youth;
Still learn from Israel's youthful sage
To honor God, and prize the Truth.

The sculptur'd marble strives in vain,
Vain Egypt's spicy cerements prove,
The sure embalmers of man's fame,
Are talents, learning, Christian love.

Now the moon brightens all the green,
Pours her mild beams amidst thy boughs,
And in the checker'd shade are seen
Two youthful lovers sighing vows.

Vows of eternal love and truth,
Which time or fate can ne'er destroy,
Love sparkling with perpetual youth,
Which ne'er will fade, and ne'er can cloy.

Ah simple, happy heedless pair!
May no dense cloud of sober truth,
Shadow thy prospects, or impair
The transient spring time of thy youth.

Ye heed not now how quick, how soon,
The youthful heart may swerve or range;
And like that glittering lovely moon
Is prone to wane, and apt to change.

But cease, my muse, this childish lay;
To thee can fancy's toys belong?
My furrow'd brow, and tresses gray
Are ill suited to the idle song.

When ardent youth crown'd life's gay scene
I could bright Fancy's dreams create,
And from a stubborn flinty theme,
The flickering sparks could scintillate.

My ebbing mind and troubled head
Both bid me cease the poet's strains;
Invention's gone, and fancy fled,
And naught but chiming rhyme remains.

In this vain, airy, shadowy scene
Is there no moral which appears,
No sage reflection to be seen,
More suited to my waning years?

Faith! -- Holy Faith! and Hope sublimed!
Point to the apostolic page,
There in the "buried seed" to find,
Meet subject for reflecting age.

Misshapen seed! I too, like thee
Shall in our parent earth be cast,
And with new life shall quicken'd be
When the grave's wintry season's past.

For man, the awak'ning trump shall sound,
"The Sun of Righteousness" arise;
The human seed shall burst the ground,
And mount immortal to the skies.

O! may I then, like that fair tree,
Erst by the inspir'd Exile seen;
By crystal waters planted be,
And nurtur'd by the living stream.

Removed to that celestial clime,
From the world's follies and its care;
And like that tree of Life Divine,
Bloom in Immortal verdure there.





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