INVOCATION TO HEALTH. SWEET WEET are the rosy bowers, When Zephyr scents the gale, From aromatic flowers, That deck the dewy vale: But aromatic flowers No fragrance have for me; The gentle streams meander I Shall I the morn's sweet blushes Drench'd in ambrosial dew? Or linger where the fountain For thee, O Health, I languish, And light my smiles again : Not rains to with'ring flowers, Can half so pleasing be; Or sunshine after showers, As thy dear smiles to me. THE ADIEU, ON LEAVING A FAVOURITE PLACE. "TIS evening, the voice of the lab'rer is still; The songsters are hush'd into rest; And thro' the green meadow slow murmurs the rill, With Cynthia's bright beam on its breast. To the heart of the poet, how dear is the grove; For soon I must quit the lone thickets I love, Yet still as o'er bleak barren mountains I go, On the scenes of my childhood a tear I'll bestow, Perhaps ere again the young showers of May, The turf shall embosom this mansion of clay, If so, shall my sighs and affections be o'er? Shall I reach the blest haven, and land on the shore O, thanks to the Author of life, I may say, And hope to my soul can a promise display, Then why do I weep? tho' on earth we must part, That binds us together, united in heart, In glory we'll link it again. Yet, scenes of my childhood, one tender adieu, Ere I go to behold you no more! Sweet bowers of bliss, when ye flit from my view, Ah! what can my comfort restore? O say, when I roam to the crimson-streak'd west, Shall contentment and piety gladden my breast, Yes, yes, tho' I rove to the earth's farthest bound, Where the sky and the ocean unite, If clasp'd in the arms of Religion I'm found, Sweet peace shall my bosom delight. THE GRAVE. "There the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." WHEN sorrow weighs the spirit down, And wrongs oppress the brave: The grave can calm the troubled mind, A sweet oblivion there. In lucid robes of spotless white, Religion's angel form Dispels the shades of death's dark night, Then why should Christians fear to die? |