The Patowmac Guardian, And Berkeley Advertiser

SEAT OF THE MUSES.

ELEGY.

On the Thirty-first of December

Yes, I will climb yon rough rock's giddy height
That o'er the ocean bends his brow severe,
And as I move on Time's neglected light,
Wait the last sunshine of the parting year!

Why do the winds so sadly seem to rave?
Why broods such solemn horror o'er the deep?
It is, that Fancy points the yawning grave
And sick'ning, shudders at the pond'rous deep

For O! since last December's hoary head
Bow'd to oblivion's wave; and sunk beneath
From this strange world what fluttering crowds are fled
To throng the caves of pale relentless Death!

And every transitory shade is lost,
That in its course was fondly call'd To-day
Spring's sweets are gone! and Summer's flow'ry boast!

And Autumn's purple honors past away
And now, tho' Winter, in rude mantle drest,
Extends his icy sceptre o'er the icy plain!
Soon shall he sink on April's dewy breast!
And laughing May shall re-assume her reign!

But Man, when once his bright day's flush is o'er,
And youth's too-fleeting pleasures take their wing,
Must on life's scene re-vegetate no more,
But leap its gulph to find another spring.

And can that something each man calls 'himself,'
Midst this wide miracle of earth and sky,
Waste the swift moments in the toil for pelf,--
Nor raise one thought to Nature's Majesty?

On the globe's surface creep, a grov'ling worm!
Nor joy the noon-tide radiance to behold--
Nor trace the Mighty Hand that guides the storm--
But deem existence relative to gold?

Ah! since this awful Now remains for me,
To think, to breathe, to wonder at the whole,
To move, to touch, to taste, to hear, to see,
To call the mystic consciousness, my soul.

Fain would I seek a-while the pensive shade,
Ere the scene close upon this doubtful state;
Catch every painted phantom ere it fade,
And leave the vast uncertainty to Fate!

But Grief is mine!--yet can I quit the crew;
Whose bosoms burn with avarice and pride,
In yon blue vault to quench my thirsty view
Or tell my feelings to the boist'rous tide.

For are there not, as journeying on we go,
With pilgrim step thro' an unfriendly vale,
Oppression, Malice, Cruelty, and Woe,
And do not Falsehood's venom'd shafts assail?

Were it not nobler far, with social love,
As fellow-travellers in a rugged road,
That each the other's evils should remove,
And with joint force sustain the gen'ral load?