 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
33
CONSCIENCE.
A POEM.
Will downy beds, or aromatic flowers,
Sequester'd shades, or amaranthine bowers,
Blunt the keen anguish of a troubled breast,
When guilty thoughts the startled soul invest?
Not all the riches of wide India's shore,
Arabia's sweets, or Afric's golden store,
Can heal a wounded soul, nor cease the smart
By vice inflicted on a guilty heart:
Nature and Art their charms in vain bestow;
'Tis Innocence alone true peace can know.
Sequester'd shades, or amaranthine bowers,
Blunt the keen anguish of a troubled breast,
When guilty thoughts the startled soul invest?
Not all the riches of wide India's shore,
Arabia's sweets, or Afric's golden store,
Can heal a wounded soul, nor cease the smart
By vice inflicted on a guilty heart:
Nature and Art their charms in vain bestow;
'Tis Innocence alone true peace can know.
Why starts Lysander thus—at ev'ry noise?
Where are his transports fled? his home-felt joys?
Wherefore, in vain, her notes does Music pour?
Or Fortune all her glitt'ring favours show'r?
Where are his transports fled? his home-felt joys?
Wherefore, in vain, her notes does Music pour?
Or Fortune all her glitt'ring favours show'r?
34
Stung with remorse, the Plund'rer dreads the weight
Of rigorous Justice, and avenging Fate;
For this he starts, if gentle zephyrs shake
The patt'ring leaves, or tremble in the brake.
The toiling peasant's breast no cares annoy;
His life is labour, and his labour joy;
His guiltless bosom knows not to relent,
Rich in his homely fare, and sweet content;
In his lone humble cot the treasure lies,
Which neither wealth can buy, nor pomp supplies.
Of rigorous Justice, and avenging Fate;
For this he starts, if gentle zephyrs shake
The patt'ring leaves, or tremble in the brake.
The toiling peasant's breast no cares annoy;
His life is labour, and his labour joy;
His guiltless bosom knows not to relent,
Rich in his homely fare, and sweet content;
In his lone humble cot the treasure lies,
Which neither wealth can buy, nor pomp supplies.
Grant then, thou pow'r divine, whose single nod
Can make the trembling world confess its God,
That guilt my honest heart may never stain,
Nor pungent Conscience dart afflicting pain:
Turn me, O turn me, from the path impure;
In thee I trust, thy aid alone is sure.
Can make the trembling world confess its God,
That guilt my honest heart may never stain,
Nor pungent Conscience dart afflicting pain:
Turn me, O turn me, from the path impure;
In thee I trust, thy aid alone is sure.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |