Alas! from the day that we met, What hope of an end to my woes? When I cannot endure to forget The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain: The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. O ye woods, spread your branches apace! I would hide with the beasts of the chace; Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine! A little farm was my paternal lot, Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn, My daughter-once the comfort of my age! My tender wife-sweet soother of my care! And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief-and Heaven will bless your store. HYMN TO BENEVOLENCE. BY BLACKLOCK. HAIL, Source of transport, ever new! Too vast for little minds to know, Daughter of God! delight of man! Which still thy hand sustains; By thee sweet Peace her empire spread, And Discord guash'd in chains. Far as the pointed sunbeam flies Through peopled earth and starry skies, All nature owns thy nod; We see its energy prevail Through being's ever-rising scale, From nothing e'en to God. By thee inspir'd, the gen'rous breast, O come! and o'er my bosom reign, Each low, each selfish wish control; If from thy sacred paths I turn, Nor feel their griefs, while others mourn, Nor with their pleasures glow: Banish'd from God, from bliss, and thee, My own tormentor let me be, And groan in hopeless woe. |