 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
TO MISS HARRIET T---N,
OF HEMPSTEAD, L. I.
My left side suffers—yet I find
The heart retains its former station,
And warmly throbs, whene'er the mind
Reverts to one dear habitation.
The mind, too, suffers; for the power
Of memory is paralyzed;
And only dimly marks the hour
Which erst so tenderly I prized.
The heart retains its former station,
And warmly throbs, whene'er the mind
Reverts to one dear habitation.
The mind, too, suffers; for the power
Of memory is paralyzed;
And only dimly marks the hour
Which erst so tenderly I prized.
When in that habitation nursed,
By Friendship's warm and tender care,
I said that fate might do its worst—
Soothed by such friends, I 'd learn to bear!
When cheered by Harriet's laughing eyes,
I nearly lost the sense of pain;
But fettered memory hourly tries
To sketch that watching look, in vain.
By Friendship's warm and tender care,
I said that fate might do its worst—
Soothed by such friends, I 'd learn to bear!
When cheered by Harriet's laughing eyes,
I nearly lost the sense of pain;
But fettered memory hourly tries
To sketch that watching look, in vain.
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Oh, yes, I know I have a heart,
For I can often feel it beat,
Just as in youth it used to start,
When beauty's glance I chanced to meet.
But youth and health, alas! are gone!
They were not prized enough when mine,
And I were now a wretch forlorn,
But for the loves that round me twine.
For I can often feel it beat,
Just as in youth it used to start,
When beauty's glance I chanced to meet.
But youth and health, alas! are gone!
They were not prized enough when mine,
And I were now a wretch forlorn,
But for the loves that round me twine.
Wife, children, friends!—All-bounteous Heaven!
I humbly thank thee, from my heart,
For these blessed joys, which thou hast given,
Sweet solace for affliction's smart.
Oh, yes, for these I would endure,
Were it thy will, another life,
As painful as the past—as poor!
But grant me still my present wife.
I humbly thank thee, from my heart,
For these blessed joys, which thou hast given,
Sweet solace for affliction's smart.
Oh, yes, for these I would endure,
Were it thy will, another life,
As painful as the past—as poor!
But grant me still my present wife.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |