EFFUSION VI.
TO my once cheerful home, at evening hour,
Sad I return, and weary; from my brow
Wiping the painful sweat-drops, for afar,
Over thy heights, Farinioch, I have climb'd,
With lonely tread; and, from the blaze of noon,
Till now that Hesper rises, borne the thirst
And turmoil of the day. Yet not for this
Droop I despondent, or, with faltering step,
Pause on the threshold of my lonely cot,
Checking the starting tear. Not this I moan.
It is the doom of man with toil to earn,
With toil and care, the bread of his support;
Nor must I claim exemption; but submit,
Outcast of fortune, to the common lot
That Fortune's outcasts bear. Of this let those
Who less have mark'd life's checker'd paths complain:
Had my poor heart no heavier cause of woe,
I would not bend beneath it — but, as erst,
Smooth from the trouble past my wrinkled brow,
And seize the present good. But nought is good!
This trouble passes not: and Hesper's ray
In vain conducts to my once-cheerful home: —
For my once-cheerful home can cheer no more,
And toil's reward is wanting. Hence, alas!
Even on the threshold, faltering, I recline,
While the heart droops within me. Where is now
The shout exulting, that was wont to hail
My home-returning steps? Ah! where those eyes,
Kindling with filial ecstasy? — that cheek,
Flush'd with ingenuous glow? those outstretch'd arms,
To which, with holiest rapture, I have rush'd,
Blessing the name of father? Where is she —
My soul's best darling! hope of all my hopes!
Whose bosom thrilling with such eager joy,
Wont to rush forth to meet me! — Round I turn,
As my sad heart thus questions, to the spot,
Where, o'er the church-yard wall, sad neighbourhood!
The white-thorn budding marks thy early grave,
Maria! Oh! Maria! — There, entranc'd,
Lingers the tearful gaze; reluctantly
To the flow latch reverting — — the slow latch
That, late uplifted, to mine eye reveals
Nought but the sadness of sepulchral gloom!
TO my once cheerful home, at evening hour,
Sad I return, and weary; from my brow
Wiping the painful sweat-drops, for afar,
Over thy heights, Farinioch, I have climb'd,
With lonely tread; and, from the blaze of noon,
Till now that Hesper rises, borne the thirst
And turmoil of the day. Yet not for this
Droop I despondent, or, with faltering step,
Pause on the threshold of my lonely cot,
Checking the starting tear. Not this I moan.
It is the doom of man with toil to earn,
With toil and care, the bread of his support;
Nor must I claim exemption; but submit,
Outcast of fortune, to the common lot
That Fortune's outcasts bear. Of this let those
Who less have mark'd life's checker'd paths complain:
Had my poor heart no heavier cause of woe,
I would not bend beneath it — but, as erst,
Smooth from the trouble past my wrinkled brow,
And seize the present good. But nought is good!
This trouble passes not: and Hesper's ray
In vain conducts to my once-cheerful home: —
For my once-cheerful home can cheer no more,
And toil's reward is wanting. Hence, alas!
Even on the threshold, faltering, I recline,
While the heart droops within me. Where is now
The shout exulting, that was wont to hail
My home-returning steps? Ah! where those eyes,
Kindling with filial ecstasy? — that cheek,
Flush'd with ingenuous glow? those outstretch'd arms,
To which, with holiest rapture, I have rush'd,
Blessing the name of father? Where is she —
My soul's best darling! hope of all my hopes!
Whose bosom thrilling with such eager joy,
Wont to rush forth to meet me! — Round I turn,
As my sad heart thus questions, to the spot,
Where, o'er the church-yard wall, sad neighbourhood!
The white-thorn budding marks thy early grave,
Maria! Oh! Maria! — There, entranc'd,
Lingers the tearful gaze; reluctantly
To the flow latch reverting — — the slow latch
That, late uplifted, to mine eye reveals
Nought but the sadness of sepulchral gloom!