127
O you, who are by nature form'd,
Each thought refin'd to know,
Repress the word, the glance, that wakes
That trembling nerve to woe.
And be it still your joy to raise
The trembler from the shade,
To bind the broken, and to heal
The wounds you never made.
When e'er you see the feeling mind,
Oh, let this care begin,
And though the cell be rude or low,
Respect the guest within.
A SUMMER MORNING.
FAIR on the features of the morn,
A blush of purple glows,
While waking plants, and opening flowers,
Their fragrant breath disclose.
