166 IIEXllT KIRKE white's REMAINS. 



ODE TO THOUGHT. 

 Written at Midnight. 



Hence away, vindictive Thought ! 



Thy pictures are of pain ; 

 The visions through thy dark eye caught, 

 They with no gentle charms are fraught, 

 So prithee back again. 

 I would not weep, 

 I wish to sleep, 

 Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep ? 



Why dost o'er bed and couch recline ? 



Is this thy new delight ? 

 Pale visitant, it is not thine 

 To keep thy sentry through the mine, 

 The dark vault of the night ; 

 'Tis thine to die, 

 While o'er the eye 

 The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows ily, 



III. 

 Go thou and bide with him who guides 



His bark through lonely seas ; 

 And as, reclining on his elm, 

 Sadly he marks the starry realm. 

 To him thou mayst bring ease j 

 But thou to me 

 Art misery, 

 So prithee, prithee, plume thy wings, and from my pillow 

 fiee. 



