Lamenting her disastrous lot,

She lover'd round that sacred spot;
And, though she knew it held them not,
She call'd her young ones mournfully.

Poor hapless warbler! not alone
Shalt thou indulge thy plaintive moan;
Such feelings hath this bosom known,
This heart shall share thy agony.

For I have seen that speaking eye,

Where friendship I could once espy,

Glancing disdainful, proud, and high,
When I have look'd for sympathy.

I have beheld that lovely face,

Where once, enraptur'd, I could trace
Of sweetest smiles the winning grace,
Look coldly, dark, and scornfully.

And it has been my fate to see

That heart so generous, frank, and free,

By harsh suspicions clos'd to me

In mute insensibility.

Yet I, like thee, sweet bird! in vain

Essay to break the potent chain,

Which binds me to the spot, where pain Still mocks my fond credulity.

But happier far thy lot than mine;

Love, peace, and joy may yet be thine;

Another spring shall see thee join

Nature's returning jubilee.

Mine is, alas! a harder doom;

No more shall Julia's smiles illume

My thorny path: but deepest gloom,

And horror, be my destiny.

TO LUCY IN HEAVEN.

DEPARTED saint! whose gentle sway

Once lull'd to peace this throbbing breast;

To thee my mournful muse shall pay

The homage of a heart unblest.

And if to thy untroubl'd seat

The voice of sorrow can ascend;

With soothing pity thou shalt greet
The plaintive accents of a friend.

If e'er on earth that friend was dear

Oh let him not unheeded pine;

If angel eyes can drop a tear

Let one bright pledge descend from thine.

And when the bright harmonious choir

Give songs of heavenly praises birth;
Let tenderest thoughts of love inspire
A sigh for those still left on earth.

Whate'er the blissful lot assign'd

To sainted denizens of Heaven; Whether, on fleecy clouds reclin'd,

They glitter in the rays of even;

Or, bathing in the chrystal stream,

Which flows through virtue's blest abode;

Or prompted by seraphic dream,

They hymn the glory of their God:

Whate'er thy task, departed shade!

Still, if thine eye can glance below,

For him to whom thy vows were made One tear of fond regret shall flow.

Shall flow uncheck'd, perhaps approv'd; O might it but for mercy plead!

Then, dearest saint! admir'd! belov'd! That pious drop were bless'd indeed.

H