Part 66

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As through a valley remote I strayed, Methought, beside a mouldering temple’s stone, The tale of whose dark structure was unknown, I saw the form of Time: his scythe’s huge blade Lay swathed in the grass, whose gleam was seen Fearful, as oft the wind, the tussocks green Moved stirring to and fro: the beam of morn Cast a dim lustre on his look forlorn; When touching a responsive instrument, Stern o’er the chords his furrowed brow he bent: Meantime a naked boy, with aspect sweet, Played smiling with the hour-glass at his feet! Apart from these, and in a verdant glade, A sleeping infant on the moss was laid, O’er which a female form her vigils kept, And watched it, softly-breathing as it slept. Then I drew nigh, and to my listening ear Came, stealing soft and slow, this ditty clear:

“Lullaby, sing lullaby,-- Sweetest babe, in safety lie; I thy mother sit and sing, Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing. Here, where innocence reposes, Fairy sylphs, your sports delay; Then the breath of morning roses From its bed of bliss convey. Lullaby, sing lullaby,-- Sweetest babe, in safety lie; I thy mother sit and sing, Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.”

Bowles.

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Relentless Time! that steals with silent tread, Shall tear away the trophies of the dead. Fame, on the pyramid’s aspiring top, With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop; The feeble characters of Glory’s hand Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand; But not with these expire the sacred flame Of virtue, or the good man’s awful name.

Bowles.

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O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile-- As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:-- Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

Bowles.

COMMON THISTLE.... Misanthropy.

Who would seek or prize Delights that end in aching? Who would trust to ties That every hour are breaking? Better far to be In utter darkness lying, Than be blest with light, and see That light for ever flying. All that’s bright must fade,-- The brightest still the fleetest, All that’s sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest!

Moore.

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I had much rather see A crested dragon or a basilisk, Both are less poison to my eyes and nature.

Dryden.

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Hate all, curse all: show charity to none; But let the famished flesh slide from the bone, Ere thou relieve the beggar: give to dogs What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow them, Debts wither them to nothing: be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods.

Shakspeare.

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I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind: For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

Shakspeare.

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I’ll keep my way alone, and burn away-- Evil or good I care not, so I spread Tremendous desolation on my road: I’ll be remembered as huge meteors are; From the dismay they scatter.

Proctor.

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I see thou art implacable, more deaf To prayers than winds and seas; yet winds and seas Are reconciled at length, and sea to shore: Thy anger, unappeasable, still rages Eternal tempest never to be calm.

Milton.