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Oh! tremble Ye to whom hath been assigned
A course of days composing happy months,
And they as happy years; the present still
So like the past, and both, so firm a pledge
Of a congenial future, that the wheels
Of pleasure move without the aid of hope.
For Mutability is Nature's bane;
And slighted Hope will be avenged; and, when
Ye need her favours, Ye shall find her not;
But, in her stead—fear—doubt—and agony!"
This was the bitter language of the heart;
But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice,
Though discomposed and vehement, were such
As skill and graceful Nature might suggest
To a Proficient of the tragic scene,
Standing before the multitude, beset
With sorrowful events; and we, who heard
And saw, were moved. Desirous to divert,
Or stem, the current of the Speaker's thoughts,
We signified a wish to leave that Place
Of stillness and close privacy, which seemed
A nook for self-examination framed,
