232
Where the lone maid in secret sighs
O'er the lost solace of her heart,
As prostrate, in despair, she lies,
And feels her tortur'd life depart:
Where midst that desolated land,
The sire lamenting o'er his son,
Extends his weak and powerless hand,
And finds its only prop is gone.
See, how the bands of war and woe
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;
And tell me if your laurels grow,
And flourish in a soil like this?
THE FIRST WINTRY MORNING.
AWAKE! and let the grateful lay
With joy to Heaven's high palace rise,
Before the bright, rejoicing day
Returns to light the glowing skies:
