46
POEMS.
Or should some Syren drop her mask,
Whose arts had made your soul her slave,
Oh! then, my Charles, be mine the task
To ease the pain, which others gave.
Whose arts had made your soul her slave,
Oh! then, my Charles, be mine the task
To ease the pain, which others gave.
As o'er the sky does Solar Light
At morn diffuse a brilliant blaze,
So Love and Fame with splendour bright
Gild Man-the-Pilgrim's youthful days:
At morn diffuse a brilliant blaze,
So Love and Fame with splendour bright
Gild Man-the-Pilgrim's youthful days:
But when those splendours disappear,
And night and grief their place assume,
Mild rises Friendship's Moon, to chear
And guide the Wanderer through the gloom.
And night and grief their place assume,
Mild rises Friendship's Moon, to chear
And guide the Wanderer through the gloom.
