L'HOMME DE L'ENNUI.

Forlornly I wander, forlornly I sigh,

And droop my head sadly, I cannot tell why:

When the first breeze of morning blows fresh in my face,

As the wild-waving walks of our woodlands I trace,

Reviv'd for the moment I look all around,

But my eyes soon grow languid, and fix on the ground.

I have yet no misfortune to rob me of rest,

No love discomposes the peace of my breast;

Ambition ne'er enter'd the verge of my thought,

Nor by honours, by wealth, nor by power am I caught;

Those phantoms of folly disturb not my ease,

Yet Time is a tortoise, and Life a disease.

With the blessings of youth and of health on my side,

A temper untainted by envy or pride;

No guilt to corrode, and no foes to molest;

There are many who tell me my station is blest.

This I cannot dispute; yet without knowing why —

I feel that my bosom is big with a sigh.

Oh! why do I see that all knowledge is vain;

That Science finds Error still keep in her train;

That Imposture or Darkness, with Doubt and Surmise,

Will mislead, will perplex, and then baffle the wise,

Who often, when labours have shorten'd their span,

Declare — not to know — is the province of man?

In life, as in learning, our views are confin'd,

Our discernment too weak to discover the mind,

Which, subdued and irresolute, keeps out of sight;

Or if, for a moment, her presence delight,

Our air is too gross for the stranger to stay;

And, back to her prison she hurries away!

If my own narrow precincts I seek to explore,

My wishes how vain, my attainments how poor!

Tenacious of virtue, with caution I move;

I correct, and I wrestle, but cannot approve;

Till, bewilder'd and faint, I would yield up the rein,

But I dare not in peace with my errors remain!

With zeal all awake in the cause of a friend,

With warmth unrepress'd by my fear to offend,

With sympathy active in hope or distress,

How keen and how anxious I cannot express,

I shrink, lest an eye should my feelings behold,

And my heart seems insensible, selfish and cold.

I strive to be gay, but my efforts are weak,

And, sick of existence, for pleasure I seek;

I mix with the empty, the loud, and the vain,

Partake of their folly, and double my pain.

In others I meet with depression and strife;

Oh! where shall I seek for the music of life?