 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
SONNET
in a Lady's Scrap-Book.
Thy page is pure as yet—so is thy life—
And thro' the storms of time, may they remain,
Thus pure—thy book, unsullied with a stain,
Thyself, still free from passion's madd'ning strife:
Yet if the hope thus breath'd for thee, be vain,
If life's young barque must meet a stormy sea,
Tost on the billows of eternal pain,
With grief and care its only destiny:—
And thro' the storms of time, may they remain,
Thus pure—thy book, unsullied with a stain,
Thyself, still free from passion's madd'ning strife:
Yet if the hope thus breath'd for thee, be vain,
If life's young barque must meet a stormy sea,
Tost on the billows of eternal pain,
With grief and care its only destiny:—
Oh! may the hope, that still in sorrows hour,
Gilds the frail cot that bears disease's form,
Emit bright rays of all enduring pow'r,
And lift thy troubled spirit thro' the storm:
And bear thy heart on well poised wing away,
To skies forever bright, to worlds where all is day.
Gilds the frail cot that bears disease's form,
Emit bright rays of all enduring pow'r,
And lift thy troubled spirit thro' the storm:
And bear thy heart on well poised wing away,
To skies forever bright, to worlds where all is day.
| Lyrical and other poems | |