1
Poems.
THE OLD FISHERMAN.
'My bosom is chill'd with the cold,
My limbs their lost vigour deplore!
Alas! to the lonely and old,
Hope warbles her promise no more!
My limbs their lost vigour deplore!
Alas! to the lonely and old,
Hope warbles her promise no more!
'Worn out with the length of my way,
I must rest me awhile on the beach,
To feel the salt dash of the spray,
If haply so far it may reach.
I must rest me awhile on the beach,
To feel the salt dash of the spray,
If haply so far it may reach.
