No More Learning

O steep my senses in Oblivion's balm,
And soothe my throbbing pulse with lenient hand,
This tempest of my boiling blood becalm--
Despair grows mild, Sleep, in thy mild command.

Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
And sadly toiling through the tedious night,
I seek sweet slumber while that virgin bloom
For ever hovering haunts my unhappy sight.
Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm:
Black midnight and the blaze of noon alike
To me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death stands prepared, but still delays, to strike.

T. WARTON.


_287_

AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

BYRON.

Byron's version is a weak piece of youthful work. I add here Pope's
_Dying Christian to his Soul_, a noble poem suggested by that of
Hadrian, and emphasizing powerfully the contrast between pagan and
Christian sentiment:--

VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark, they whisper; angels say,
'Sister spirit, come away! '
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?

POPE.


_368_

HAPPY the man who his whole time doth bound
Within the enclosure of his little ground.
Happy the man whom the same humble place,
The hereditary cottage of his race,
From his first rising infancy has known,
And by degrees sees gently bending down
With natural propension to that earth
Which both preserved his life and gave him birth.
Him no false distant lights by Fortune set
Could ever into foolish wanderings get.