This page needs to be proofread.
140 MISCELLAN F. OUS POEMS. How soft, how tender a repose O'er Nature sheds its balm, Like Sorrow, mellowing, at the close, To Resignation's calm ! While man's last murmur, hush'd to rest, Steals gradual from the ear, As the world's tumult, from a breast, Where heav'n alone is dear. O'er all my s. oul seems gently shed A kindred, soften'd light; I think of hopes, that long have lied, And scarcely mourn their flight. Yet, somewhat in my bosom stirs Fond Memory's pain'd regret, As all the varied past recurs; It will not leave me yet ! Now does thy car descend beneath The boundary of our skies, And sheds upon the purpled heath Its last, and deepest dies. ......... ?Google
�
