TO HIS HORSE.
Friend of my hours of melancholy gloom,
To soothe me now, come, scouring o'er the plain;
Bear me that I forgetfulness may gain,
Lost in thy speed from my unhappy doom.
The fond illusions of my love are gone,
Fled never to return! and with them borne
Peace, happiness and hope: the veil is drawn,
And the bared cheat shows frenzy's end alone.
O! how the memory of pleasures past
Now wearies me! horrible that soul's state,
Of flowers of. hope, or freshness desolate!
What then remains it? Bitterness o'ercast.
This south wind kills me: O! that I could rest
In sweet oblivion, temporary death!
Kind sleep might moderate my feverish breath,
And my worn soul again with strength be blest.
My Horse, my friend, I do implore thee, fly!
Though with the effort break my frame so weak:
Grant for thy master's brows he thus may seek
Sleep's balmy wings spread forth benignantly.
