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SONNET TO THE MUSE OF PITY.
Oh! mistress of the melancholy song,
I love to bend before thy sacred shrine;
To thee my fondest early vows belong,
For pity's melting tenderness is thine.
Thine is the harp of wild expressive tone,
‘Tis thine to touch it with entrancing art;
Till all thy numbers vibrate on the heart,
And sympathy delights thy powers to own.
Oh! sweetest muse of pity and of love,
In artless song thy plaintive lyre I hail;
Be mine to weep with thee o'er sorrow's tale,
And oft thy pleasing visions may I prove.
"Thou mistress of the melancholy song,
"To thee my fondest early vows belong."
THE SONG OF A SERAPH.
"Hark! they whisper, angels say,
POPE."Sister spirit! come away!"
POPE."Sister spirit! come away!"
Lo! the dream of life is o'er;
Pain the Christian's lot no more!
Kindred spirit! rise with me,
Thine the meed of victory.
Pain the Christian's lot no more!
Kindred spirit! rise with me,
Thine the meed of victory.
