Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune
That fosters peace, and gentleness recals;
Then might the passing Monk receive a boon
Of saintly pleasure, from these pictured walls,
While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing lustre falls.
How blest the souls who when their trials come
Yield not to terror or despondency,
But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom,
Whose head the ruddy Apple tops, while he
Expectant stands beneath the linden tree,
Not quaking like the timid forest game;
He smiles—the hesitating shaft to free,
Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim,
And to his Father gives its own unerring aim.
In the 3d of the Desultory Stanzas, I am indebted to M. Ramond, who has written with genuine feeling on these subjects.
THE END.
LONDON:
Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
