Such is the wish of Friendship; though, alas!
That wish perchance will unavailing flow;
For frail Mortality is doom'd to fade,
And we are all the certain heirs of Woe.
But when within the breast firm Virtue glows,
The blast of Sorrow we may bravely dare.
Though for a while it withers every leaf,
Yet they'll revive, and bloom more sweet, more fair.
MY SISTER ON HER BIRTH-DAY,
MAIDENS, go forth, go pluck each floweret fair,
And form a Wreath to deck my Sister's hair;
The Rose, the Lily pure, the Pink so gay,
To grace her brow on this her Natal Day.
Alas! I quite forgot, November's gloom
Has now despoil'd them of their lovely bloom;
That not one opening bud will now unfold,
Nor one green leaf our sorrowing eyes behold.
Yet though they all refuse their aid to lend,
To help this trifling tribute of a Friend,
Know then, that on this blest auspicious day
A Wreath I'll form, whose sweets shall rival May,
See on Matilda's check the blushing Rose,
And her pure breast the Lily will disclose;
While o'er my Wreath fair Virtue's soft perfume
Sheds its sweet breath, and bids it ever bloom.
WHEN forc'd to part from those we love,
Though sure to meet to-morrow,
We still a kind of anguish prove,
And feel a touch of sorrow.
But oh! what words can paint the tears
We shed as thus we sever,
When doom'd to part for months, for
Perhaps to part for ever?
MARK yon sad Rose, once Summer's darling pride,
That threw its blooming odours far and wide,
Now all its bright, its blushing honours past;
Too dazzling fair, alas! and sweet to last.
But yet, though scatter'd be each silken leaf
By cruel Time, that sad despoiling thief,
Still from those leaves exhales a rich perfume;
Still they are sweet, though they have ceas'd to bloom.
So lov'd remembrances of joys long fled.
O'er the sad heart their soothing influence shed:
While in the breast is saved each wither'd leaf
Of past delight, to soothe its present grief.
O BEAUTEOUS weed, expanding every fold
To catch the breath of morn begemm'd with dew,
Thy opening buds so lovely to behold,
Steal o'er the sense, and fascinate the view.
But oh! be warn'd, nor idly venture there.
Touch not a Leaf, but from it quickly fly;
For 'neath those silken Leaves, so tempting fair,
Poison there lurks.-Who tastes must surely die.
So from the smiling Flowers of treacherous Love
Poor fond believing Maids no ills suspect,
Till ah! too fatally, alas, they prove
The poisonous chalice of severe neglect.
No solace can for celd neglect be found:
Deep is the sting; incurable the wound.
O GLITTERING Pleasure, in thy splendid ray
Pangs oft assail us while thy sun-beams play.
E'en while their cheering influence glads the Heart,
Sorrow in poison steeps the fated Dart,
To wound our peace forever with some grief
Unalterable, and without relief.
E'en while, alas, the sad, the sorrowing breast
Enjoys a soothing calm, a transient rest,
Springs some new wretchedness, some sudden ill,
With tenfold anguish each sad thought to fill.
Pleasure, avaunt! thou ne'er shalt cheat me more!
Thy flitting Phantom-charms for me are o'er.
I've found thy smiles were only to deceive,
And with redoubled anguish make me grieve.
Like Thee, I've seen the cheating morning hour
Wake into Life some sweet and tender flower;
Soon have I seen dark clouds o'ercast the skies,
Or some dank vapor or chill blast arise;
Seen all its lustre, all its sweetness fly,
Just wak'd to life, to charm us, and to die.
COME, Apathy, come, steel my suffering heart,
Nor let it for another's sorrows heave:
Thy leaden wand to me O! but impart,
Then may my bosom haply cease to grieve.
When sorrow fills another's moisten'd eye,
When bursting anguish rends another's mind,
Let not my sullen heart responsive sigh,
Nor let them from my lips one comfort find.
Let me with stagnant eye their woes survey;
Survey the scalding tear bedew their cheek;
And thus with chilling coldness, simply say,
"Is it for me thou comfort com'st to seek?"
But hold! Though Apathy may sorrow less,
Does it e'er taste of pure unsully'd joy?
No! it can ne'er like warmest feelings bless;
For we must suffer, or we can't enjoy.
FAIR Candor, in thy pure unsullied mien
Firm Truth is ever most resplendent seen.
Smiling secure, thy spotless form we trace,
Lending a charm that wakes a new-born grace.
No coward myst'ry can a refuge find
Within the precincts of the candid mind;
Scorning all mean disguise, all well-fcign'd fear,
Seeming still more to know than meets the ear.
Behold the empty head with secret great,
Whispering with caution, as if big with fate;
Telling a nothing, with a pompous air,
And seeming sad with an ideal care!
Hence, hated mystery! nor dare advance
With poisonous whisper, and with eye askance,
Sowing rank weeds within the human breast,
Which with fair Candor's flame should be possess'd.
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