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A mellow beauty they diffuse,
Which pensive pleasure loves to trace.
And dearer is thy transient calm,
That wakes the mild and soothing tear,
Than summer air of fragrant balm,
Than all the treasures of the year.
And sweeter is thy partial ray,
For ah! too soon it melts away.
F. D. B. aged 13.
SONNET.
’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest,
May hover round the virtuous man's repose;
And oft in visions animate his breast,
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven with pure controul,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease;
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul,
And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace.
Ah! tender thought, that oft with sweet relief,
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend;
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion blend;
While oft he fancies music sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.
