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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - To A Friend, In Answer To A Melancholy Letter
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Away, those cloudy looks, that lab`ring sigh,
The peevish offspring of a sickly hour!
Nor meanly thus complain of fortune`s power,
When the blind gamester throws a luckless die.

Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train:
To-morrow shall the many-colord main
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!

Wild as th` autumnal gust, the hand of Time
Flies o`er his mystic lyre! in shadowy dance
Th` alternate groups of joy and grief advance,
Responsive to his varying strains sublime!

Bears on its wing each hour a load of fate.
The swain, who lulled by Seine`s wild murmurs, led
His weary oxen to their nightly shed,
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.

Nor shall not fortune with a vengeful smile
Survey the sanguinary despot`s might,
And haply hurl the pageant from his height,
Unwept to wander in some savage isle.

There, shiv`ring sad beneath the tempest`s frown,
Round his tired limbs to wrap the purple vest;
And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest!
Barter for food the jewels of his crown.
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