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Hail, thou source of thought divine !
Let me wander o'er thy plains,
When the blushing morn has spread.
When my peaceful life is spent,
When first I wak'd to life's unfolding day,
Delight's young dimpled handmaids rock'd my bed, Hope kiss'd my eyelids in the sun's bright ray, And fancy twind white blossoms round
A father's love, a mother's trembling 'care,
Spread fairy visions round my trusting youth, While royal lovers kneeld to call me fair,
And murmur'd oaths of unforsaken truth:
No cares could cloud, no passions could destroy,
The shining softness of those halcyon hours Where'er I turn'd, where'er I look’d, was joy,
A heaven of sunshine, and an earth of flowers.
But now the fiend shrieks loud, who rules the storm,
And strides in thunder o'er the 'frighted sphere, Hope, as she listens, veils her flying form, And fancy lingers--but to drink a tear!
ON VISITING THE GRAVE OF STERNE.
With sacred awe, with kind concern,
We view the spot where Yorrick lies: Here friendship still shall visit Sterne,
And tears shall fill affection's eyes.
Silent upon thy grave we stand,
And muse upon the dust beneathThe fairest flow'r from nature's hand,
Now with’ring in the shade of death.
When ev'ning dews thy turf so green,
Humanity, with gentle tread,
Weeping beside thy earthy bed.
Those dear companions of thy way,
Although from death they could not save, Yet here their vows they duly pay,
And bid remembrance haunt thy grave.'
Maria's shade, with pious care,
By Cynthia's light shall hither come,
Decking with flow'rs thy simple tomb.
While here, with pilgrim's step, they stray
Around thy place of endless rest,
APPROACH OF WINTER.
In woods no more the feather'd throng
Pour native music on the gale ;
Its last notes linger in the vale.
Where are the walks that blush'd with Aow'rs?
And where the western breeze that breath'd Its pilfer'd sweets to scent the bow'rs,
Which Peace and calm Contextment wreath'd ?
Since now no fragrant blossoms blow,
And desolation sweeps the ground, Come, Winter! teach me how to draw
A moral froin the ruins round.
The sober thought, to virtue dear,
Thy dreary walks shall furnish still; Still sweetly, on my pensive ear,
Shall fall the murmurs of the rill.
Oft through yon desolated grore,
Where many a faded flow'ret lies! Ai evening's shadowy hour l'll rove,
Regardless of the frowning skies.
And oft I'll to the lonely dell,
Or to the russet heath repair, To hear the distant village-bell
Sweet vibrate on th' expanse of air.
If, on the wild wing of the blast,
The demon of destruction fly;
With friendly beams, direct the eye.
Adieu! ye glitt'ring scenes, adieu!
That stole my heart from peace and truth; That promis'd pleasure, while
Illusive splendour o'er my youth!
Time, to all pictur'd bliss a foe,
Proclaims, as through its wastes we range,
Sanderson's Original Poems.