184 CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 



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, 

 And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress t\vine. 



Though Fancy flies away 



Before thy hollow tread, 

 Yet Meditation in her cell 

 Hears with faint eye her lingering 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 

 And all things fade away. 

 Man (soon discuss'd) 

 Yields up his trust, 

 And all his hopes lie with him in the dust ! 



Oh, what is Beauty's power ? 



It flourishes and dies, 

 Will the cold earth its silence break, 

 To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 



