contents | previous | next Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, And tho' his path thro' thorns and roughness lay, Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers; Weaving gay wreaths, beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose; So have I fought thy flowers, fair Poesy! So charm'd my way, with Friendship and the Muse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day, Dark, with new clouds of evil, yet to come, Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb, And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care, pursues no more. [plate 3]
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