REFLECTIONS.
Ah! yes, I feel she's gone, and sad reality
Now points with lengthen'd finger to the void that's left.
Sorrow has ransack'd all her deep and hidden stores
Of subtle poisons, and made cruel choice of this,
Most painfully efficient, lingering, and sure.
Beat on, beat on, thou throbbing heart, burst the frail thread
Which now enchains thee here, and thou shalt rest in peace,
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,
Till unrelenting Sorrow, with her busy hand
Tears the thin transient veil which shielded thee from view,
And shows the fall'n blossom that once was happiness.
But who is she that stands with placid silent air,
Contemplating thy fate?—'tis lovely Hope, who cries,—
Grieve not, ye feeble mortals, at its sudden fall;
How could it e'er survive? nipp'd in the tender bud
By chill neglect, blighted by sorrow's killing frost,
And blasted by the dark mildew of unkindness;
The wretched soil of earth is much too low and poor
To raise a tender plant so eminently fair:
It cannot bloom except in heaven, and there alone
It will expand and live to all eternity.
Now points with lengthen'd finger to the void that's left.
Sorrow has ransack'd all her deep and hidden stores
Of subtle poisons, and made cruel choice of this,
Most painfully efficient, lingering, and sure.
Beat on, beat on, thou throbbing heart, burst the frail thread
Which now enchains thee here, and thou shalt rest in peace,
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,
Till unrelenting Sorrow, with her busy hand
Tears the thin transient veil which shielded thee from view,
And shows the fall'n blossom that once was happiness.
But who is she that stands with placid silent air,
Contemplating thy fate?—'tis lovely Hope, who cries,—
Grieve not, ye feeble mortals, at its sudden fall;
How could it e'er survive? nipp'd in the tender bud
By chill neglect, blighted by sorrow's killing frost,
And blasted by the dark mildew of unkindness;
The wretched soil of earth is much too low and poor
To raise a tender plant so eminently fair:
It cannot bloom except in heaven, and there alone
It will expand and live to all eternity.