 | Poems |  |
172
A FRAGMENT.
A thousand melting scenes of dread distressNot to thy fancy, but thine eye appear,
Ideal grief may on thy mind impress
A sentiment sublime,
And swell the sympathetic heart
With feeling, that rude time
Can never seize, nor yet impart—
A smile may mingle with a rolling tear.
But gentle Nature paints with magic truth,
Attires the language of the sensient soul,
Decks hoary age, smiles on exuberant youth,
And o'er each fair and holy scene holds mild control.
Pursue her path, obey her wand,
And Passion, Hate, and frenzied Rage,
And Murder, with the gory hand,
No more will battle wage;
But shrink away, when o'er the thrilling lyre
Thy fingers fly, and ruth, and nature thee inspire.
| Poems | |