TO A FRIEND. MAY never more of pensive melancholy To lift the thought from this low earthy bed, And deeper sink within thy feeling heart Love's pleasing wounds, or friendship's polished dart! DEJECTION. WHEN sickness clouds the languid eye, And seeds of sharp diseases fly Swift through the vital frame; Rich drugs are torn from earth and sea, And balsam drops from every tree, To quench the parching flame. But oh! what opiate can assuage The throbbing breast's tumultuous rage, Which mingling passions tear! What art the wounds of grief can bind, Or soothe the sick impatient mind Beneath corroding care! Not all the potent herbs that grow On purple heath, or mountain's brow, Can banished peace restore; In vain the spring of tears to dry, For purer air or softer sky We quit our native shore. Friendship, the richest balm that flows, Was meant to heal our sharpest woes, And Love-has sorrows of his own, Which not an herb beneath the moon Is found of power to cure. Soft Pity, mild dejected maid, With tenderest hand applies her aid To dry the frequent tear; But her own griefs, of finer kind, Too deeply wound the feeling mind TO MRS. MARISSAL: 1779. WHITHER, whither, wearied dove, Wilt thou fly to seek thy rest? Beat with many a heavy storm, Where repose thy tender breast? Hither, hither, gentle dove, Bend thy flight and build thy home; Here repose thy tender breast, Fix thy foot, and never roam. Welcome, welcome, soft-eyed dove, To the sheltering low-roofed cot, Leave the splendid city's throng, Meekly kiss thy quiet lot. |