Review And Telegraph

SONG.
BY JOS. D. CANNING.

"But why art thou sad, son of Fingal? Why grows the cloud of thy soul?"—Ossian.

Air: "My love is lost to me."

Come, Willie, with thy fiddle near,
A woful wail is in my ear;
The voice of other days I hear,
Departed days of sorrow!

Come, cheerful play, and put to flight
Or charm the melancholy sprite,
That careless I may pass the night
And never mind the morrow.

I loved the world in life's gay morn,
But soon, an heir of sorrow born,
I found in every rose a thorn
Its symmetry encumbering.

I loved a lass, and she was fair;
I won her heart, and found it rare;
Lo, yonder church-yard she has there
For years, long years been slumbering.

At honor's shrine my vows I paid,
I scorned the littleness of trade,
But ne'er from strictest justice strayed.
In her I most delighted.

What gained I for my high intent?
Among the mean my chattels went,
And Justice' scale was wrongly bent,
And I was sorely slighted.

I had a friend, a "friend indeed,"
He gave me counsel, I gave heed;
Death hurled a shaft with envious speed:
My friend was gone forever!

Then like a lonely stalk of grain
Ungleaned upon the harvest plain,
The prey of wasting winds and rain,
I stood, complaining never.

The Muses mentioned me to Fame;
She took her trumpet and spread my name,
Till he of whom she blew became
Renowned in song and story;

What profit gained I in the end?
In spite of patron and of friend,
And all the muses deigned to lend,
I starved with all my glory.

Of pleasure's cup I thought to sip;
I raised the chalice to my lip;
It took a wrong unguarded slip,
'Twas bitter all I tasted.

I said to Honor, Thou art stern!
I said to Fame, Build thou my urn!
I said to Life, I'll live and learn!
But life, how art thou wasted!

Written for the New-England Review.