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ORLANDO.
High on a rock whose rugged brow Far o'er the murm'ring sea-wave hung, Orlando sat, the child of woe! And thus the dying mourner sung— His humble harp of simplest tone Lean'd careless on a mossy stone;The tears of sorrow dimm'd his fading eye,But pride suppress'd the groan, and hush'd the lab'ring sigh.—
"Go, sleep in silence evermore, Sweet solace thou, my hapless lyre! Go, moulder on the storm-beat shore, And bid thy ev'ry note expire: Oh! I have woo'd the world too long, And tamely bow'd to many a wrong;Curb'd the indignant spirit in my breast,And stoop'd degenerate down to folly's gilded crest.
Too long has fancy lov'd to dream That hearts were warm, and friends were true; 'Twere better trust the fickle gleam Of sunshine on the billows blue, Than hope on earthly soil to find The nobler virtues of the mind;For sordid int'rest warps the love of truth,Alike in frigid age and tender blooming youth.
