And trust me pleasures such as these, When'er we can 'tis wise to seize: The selfish heart they cannot please, Which beats by rule; May go and take its dull degrees In Zeno's School. There are who travel Life's dull road,* Whom discontent, with ceaseless goad, May prompt to murmur at their load Of care and wo; Regardless of the good bestow'd On all below. Let us, my Friend, with joy survey The prospect, gilded by the ray Of smiling hope, and fancy gay; A lovely pair! Desponding gloom shall flee away And black despair. "Whoe'er has travell'd Life's dull round."-Shenstone. Believe me Anne:-though I have striven, On Life's rough ocean tempest driven, To bear the heaviest stroke that heaven Inflicts on man; I will not aught witheld or given Presume to scan. And now, though I must oft retrace Those griefs which time can ne'er efface, I'm not so selfish, blind, or base, As to repine, That She has join'd the angelic race, Who once was mine. Far happier lot is Her's, I ween, Partaker of that glorious scene, Where Gates of Pearl, with dazzling sheen, The path disclose To joys immortal, bliss serene, And calm repose. Yes, I have suffer'd much below! Yet has it been my lot to know The comfort kindness can bestow, The friendly tear, Call'd forth in sympathetic glow, From heart sincere. To thee, my Friend! may Heaven assign A more auspicious fate than mine: And pure Religion's light divine Thy steps attend, Cheering with influence benign Thy journey's end. ΤΟ SONNET. THE Poet's Song, my kind, indulgent Friend! Should flow devoid of fiction, or of art, The honest tribute of a grateful heart, When he presumes to bid thy ear attend. For surely, Mary, Thou couldst never lend A fav'ring ear to Flattery's servile part; And Slander's base, malignant, envious dart, Thy generous breast would proudly reprehend. Yet from the heart which long has prov'd thy worth, Candour like thine will condescend to hear The voice of Praise :-'tis Virtue calls it forth, And Heaven approves it, for it flows sincere. No selfish feelings give this tribute birth, Thy kindness claims it, Truth records it here. TO MY LYRE. FOND plaything of my brighter hours! Vibrating once in notes of gladness, By flatt'ring Hope once crown'd with flowers, Thy master's heart now sinks in sadness! That heart which once in deepest gloom, Now deeply mourns its final doom, Unmingl'd grief, and endless sorrow. |