Laura Sophia Temple

An Address to Apathy

Gone are the dreams of gay delight,
That hover'd o'er my youthful slumbers;
    No more I view their features bright,
No more I hear their warbling numbers.
    Gone is the downy bloom of joy,
That mantled o'er the bright hereafter;
    Gone is of Love the melting eye,
And gone the "wreathed" grace of laughter.
    Well! let them go!--their charms I scorn,
And oh! renounce their empty pleasures;

    Thou shalt, oh Apathy! my verse adorn;
Thee will I sing in artless measures.
    Yes ! inmate of my frozen breast,
Thou shalt inspire my rugged numbers;
    Thy voice shall lull my soul to rest,
Thy form shall glide athwart my slumbers.
    When, on the vale, and breezy steep,
Shall steal the drowsy charm of sleep,
    And o'er the graces of the land,
Darkness shall wave his ebon wand,
    And silence banish Zephyr's breath,
Mocking the awful calm of death!
    And Fancy's wild rebellious train,
Dance thro' the regions of the brain,
    Then will I court thy placid pow'r,
    Then, e'en in Fancy's chosen hour

    Oh drive her from her fever'd throne
    And thou usurp her seat alone.
    Let not her thrilling notes arise,
    Her charms salute my sleeping eyes,
    For she can sing--so sweetly sing,
    And o'er her form such lustre fling,
    Stealing the tints of Joy and Youth,
That Hope mistakes it for the form of truth.
God! I would rather have her frenzi'd eye
Glare like a meteor on my soul's dark sky;
Have her awake the tempest's sweeping blast,
Than all the ghosts of days for ever past;
    Of hours when Love's delirious throb,
    My subject mind of strength would rob;
    When I the sighs of folly heav'd,
    When Reason wish'd to be deceiv'd.--

Then haste the bands of Thought to sever,
Ah ! close the mad'ning book for ever.