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ODE TO MEMORY. O THOU, pale porteress of the cell, Where our lost joys. and sorrows dwell; Who know'st to raise, with hand sublime, The dim veil wove by weary Time, And, gathering back the dusky folds, Point, with the wand thy right hand bolds, Each form and scene, distinctly traced In the clear mirror of the past; O may my due steps oft be found, Fond Memory, on thy hallow'd ground ! For, tho', a handmaid at thy side, Pain no less thaa Pleasure glide, Yet from her sister's radiant face She draws such gleams of kindred grace, That oft th' insidious form we hold, Unknowing which our arms infold. But thee, what glowing words can paint ? Drooping now, like dying saint, ......... ?Google
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