MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Oft too we doom' ourselves to grieve, For wealth or glory, rove; But, say, can wealth or glory give Aught, that can equal love ? Life is too short thus to bereave Existence of its spring, Or ev'n for. orie short hour to leave Those, to whose hearts we cling. Count o'er the hours, whose happy flight Is shar'd with those we love, Like stars amid a stormy night, Alas, how few they prove ! Yet they concentrate all the light, That cheers our lot 'below, And thither.turns the weary sight From ?his dari? world of wo?. And could we live, if we believ'd The future like the past ? Still hope we on, th0' still decely'd, The hour shall come at last, When all the visions, Fancy wear'd, Shall be by Truth imprest,' And they, who still in absence trier'd, Shall be together blest. 171 ......... ?Google
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