A DRAMATIC ODE. 'Till, sunk in sullen apathy 'profound, Worse than extremity of keeneat ill, My winding-sheet shall wrap his soul around, Not in repose, but winter'a deadly chill. Such peace is mine, such peace will I bestow, But other peace he cannot, shall not, know. They all unite in chor?ts. 'Tis done, 'tis done ! The web is spun, Stampt with our curses, black as night, O'er its texture, deep, and dun, What shall tiing a gleam ,of light ? Then wide around' the chorus throw, Peace he cannot, shall not, know ! Des?y. Pause, for your t?iumph is uot yet complete; Ye milder Powers, 'fis yours to sing; Ye, who the pangs of sorrow cheat, What gentler giO? have ye to bring ? No common lot, O babe, is thine, Ah happier if it were ! Brightly shall thy pleasure shine, Dark be thy despair. ......... ?Google
�
