For works with similar titles, see Depression.
DEPRESSION
How sad his fate who labours with the thought
That all his effort must successless prove!
And such is mine, since never yet I wrought
Aught that my calmer judgment might approve.
To form great projects only to discover
How weak and all inadequate my powers:
To know the muse, though fervently I love her,
Condemns me to the toil of wasted hours—
Is there a fate more full of woe than this,
Or tragedy that holds a deeper sadness?
No hell he fears (so far removed from bliss)
Who may not hope his gloom shall end in gladness:
Yet will I choose, however ill I fare,
Effort in vain rather than blank despair.
That all his effort must successless prove!
And such is mine, since never yet I wrought
Aught that my calmer judgment might approve.
To form great projects only to discover
How weak and all inadequate my powers:
To know the muse, though fervently I love her,
Condemns me to the toil of wasted hours—
Is there a fate more full of woe than this,
Or tragedy that holds a deeper sadness?
No hell he fears (so far removed from bliss)
Who may not hope his gloom shall end in gladness:
Yet will I choose, however ill I fare,
Effort in vain rather than blank despair.