Oн could my mind, unfolded in my page, Enlighten climes and mould a future age; There as it glowed, with noblest frenzy fraught, Oh could it still, thro' each succeeding year, Chase but a sigh or charm a care to rest ; In one good deed a fleeting hour employ, Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy; Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere, Tho' short their date, as his who traced them here. 1793. |