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“ Content, as random Fancies might inspire,
My heart has thanked thee, Bowles ! for those
sof Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring! For hence not callous to the mourner's pains Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I
went: And when the mightier throes of mind began, And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man, Their mild and manliest melancholy lent A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned To slumber, though the big tear it renewed ; Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood Over the wavy and tumultuous mind, As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep.
As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,
Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew
meek Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view, Who with proud words of dear-loved Freedom
More blasting than the mildew from the South !
Though roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude
WHEN British Freedom for a happier land
the doom Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze, Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.