What mad resolves,—what deep-laid schemes
What fancies bold and free,—
What dazzling hopes, and airy dreams
Were born and died with thee.
Then wouldst thou chide her idle rhyme,
Who lolling thus at ease,
Mispends the untold wealth of time
In lays so light as these.
A WALK IN THE CHURCH YARD OF MY NATIVE PLACE.
—Come,—let me turn
Through yon green avenue,—and musing walk
Where sleep the silent dead.—Ah! what a throng
Have lent their fleshly vestures to the worm
Beneath these shades.—Here first, the forest sons
Buried their lifeless brethren,—ere the feet
Of our pale race invaded them,—to die.
—First to thy pillow,—not with stranger step
I rove,—dear Benefactress!—thou whose voice
To "virtue, glory, and eternal life"
Allured my childhood.—With what gentle hand
Thou from obscurity's deep shadows drew
Thy favour'd one,—touching her unform'd mind
With love of knowledge,—as Prometheus shed
Heaven's flame upon the statue of his love.
Ah!—many a year of changes and of cares
Have taught the world's hard lesson, since thine eye
Bade me farewell,—yet still to thee I turn
