70
POEMS.
ON SORROW.
[WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A MUCH-VALUED FEMALE FRIEND.]
Yes! I'll away, and seek that kind relief,
Which rural scenes and Nature's smiles impart:
I am not of their kind, who cherish grief,
And love to fold it to a bleeding heart.
Which rural scenes and Nature's smiles impart:
I am not of their kind, who cherish grief,
And love to fold it to a bleeding heart.
Deep is my wound! No time can e'er efface
The lines by anguish on my soul imprest;
But shall I strengthen still each painful trace,
And drive the poniard further in my breast?
The lines by anguish on my soul imprest;
But shall I strengthen still each painful trace,
And drive the poniard further in my breast?
