22
There 's now no bosom left wherein to lodge thy woe;
That gentle hand is cold in death, which oft has wip'd
Thy falling tears, and sooth'd thy youthful cares to rest,
That smile which oft recall'd thy native cheerfulness,
And chas'd the rising sigh which disappointment caus'd,
Will never sweetly play again around those lips,
Which oft have seal'd thy pardon for some trivial fault,
Patiently watch'd o'er thee in the hour of sickness,
And when a helpless infant, sung thy lullaby.
Farewell, sweet Happiness! thou tender, short-liv'd plant,
Thou'rt faded now, never, ah! never to revive.
The sun of cheerfulness perhaps awhile may gleam,
And hide thy sickly wither'd form from Mem'ry's sight,
That gentle hand is cold in death, which oft has wip'd
Thy falling tears, and sooth'd thy youthful cares to rest,
That smile which oft recall'd thy native cheerfulness,
And chas'd the rising sigh which disappointment caus'd,
Will never sweetly play again around those lips,
Which oft have seal'd thy pardon for some trivial fault,
Patiently watch'd o'er thee in the hour of sickness,
And when a helpless infant, sung thy lullaby.
Farewell, sweet Happiness! thou tender, short-liv'd plant,
Thou'rt faded now, never, ah! never to revive.
The sun of cheerfulness perhaps awhile may gleam,
And hide thy sickly wither'd form from Mem'ry's sight,
