74
POEMS.
Come, social Pleasure; with thy goblet steal
My thoughts from musing o'er Death's mournful Lists!
Come, Friendship; Let thy converse make me feel
The blest conviction—"Virtue still exists!"—
My thoughts from musing o'er Death's mournful Lists!
Come, Friendship; Let thy converse make me feel
The blest conviction—"Virtue still exists!"—
And "last, not least," Come, Love! It's pain to sooth,
Bid round my burning front thy pinions play;
With gentle hand my scattered tresses smooth,
And kiss with roseate lips my tears away:
Bid round my burning front thy pinions play;
With gentle hand my scattered tresses smooth,
And kiss with roseate lips my tears away:
And for that generous service, gracious Elf,
Through life I'll bless thee, whose benignant art
For one sweet moment stole me from myself,
And poured kind balsam on a wounded Heart.
Through life I'll bless thee, whose benignant art
For one sweet moment stole me from myself,
And poured kind balsam on a wounded Heart.
