144 HENRY KIRKE WHITe's POEMS. 



ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 



I. 

 Come, Disappointment, come ! 



Not in thy terrors clad ; 

 Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 

 Thy chastening rod but terrifies 

 The restless and the bad. 

 But I recline 

 Beneath thy shrine, 

 A-nd round my brow resigned, thy peaceful cypress twine, 



II. 

 Though Fancy flies away 



Before thy hollow tread, 

 Yet Meditation in her cell, 

 Hears with faint eye, the ling'ring knell, 

 That tells her hopes are dead ; 

 And though the tear 

 By chance appear, 

 Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. 



Come, Disappointment, come ! 



Though from Hope's summit hurl'd. 

 Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven. 

 For thou, severe, wert sent from heaven 

 To wean me from the world ; 

 To turn my eye 

 From vanity. 

 And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 



What is this passing scene ? 



A peevish April day ! 

 A little sun — a little rain. 

 And then night sweeps along the plain, 



