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The Literary Gazette, 29th December 1827, page 846
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE WANDERER.
Float on, float on, thou lonely bark,
Across the weary brine;
I know not why I load thee with
Such cheerless freight as mine.
I know not why I wander forth,
Nor what I wish to see;
For Hope, the child of Morn and Mist,
Has long been veiled from me.
Little reck I for ruined towers—
They may be very fair—
Let poet or let painter rave,
I see but ruin there.
I think upon the waste above,
And on the dead below;
I see but human vanity—
I see but human wo.
And cities in their hour of pomp,
The peopled and the proud—
What are they? mighty sepulchres
To gulf a wretched crowd:
Where wealth and want are both secured
Each one the worst to bear;
Where every heart and house are barred
With the same sordid care.
And fairer scenes—the vine-wreathed hill
A gold and ruby mine,
Grapes, nature's jewels, richly wrought
Around the autumn's shrine;
The corn-fields' fairy armory,
Where every lance is gold,
And poppies fling upon the wind
Their banner's crimson gold:
The moon, sweet shadow of the sun,
On the lake's tranquil breast,—
Too much these gentle scenes contrast
My spirit's own unrest.
