18
Then hear a voice in accents blest,
"Return—return unto thy rest,"
Long prison'd in a wayward clime,
Long wounded with the thorns of time;
Long chill'd by the wild storms that pour
Around that dark, deceitful shore,
Enter—where thorns shall wound and tempests rage no more.
THE SUSCEPTIBLE MIND.
HAST thou seen the Mimosa within its soft cell,
All shrinking and suffering stand,
And draw in its tendrils, and fold its young leaves,
From the touch of the tenderest hand?
Hast thou seen the young Aspen that trembles and sighs,
On the breath of the lingering wind?
Oh! these are but emblems, imperfect and faint,
Of the shrinking and sensitive mind.
