Depression

How sad his fate who labours with the thoughtThat all his effort must successless prove!And such is mine, since never yet I wroughtAught that my calmer judgment might approve.To form great projects only to discoverHow weak and all inadequate my powers:To know the muse, though fervently I love her,Condemns me to the toil of wasted hours—Is there a fate more full of woe than this,Or tragedy that holds a deeper sadness?No hell he fears (so far removed from bliss)Who may not hope his gloom shall end in gladness:Yet will I choose, however ill I fare,Effort in vain rather than blank despair.