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TO EXPERIENCE.
Thou awful sage! with locks of snow,
With clouded mien and pensive brow;
Whose drooping form is bent with years,
Whose aged eye is dim with tears;
I court thee not, thou guide severe!
Ah! still avert thy frown austere!
For, oh! as winter blights the flow'rs,
Despoils the woodlands and the bow'rs;
So can thy chilling pow'r destroy
The dream of hope, the dream of joy.
Oh! let me ever fondly stray,
Thro' Fancy's bow'rs, thro' Fancy's way;
And if her fairy-visions bright,
Be but illusions of delight,
Oh! let me, still deceiv'd, be blest,
Lull'd, by her magic-song, to rest!
