E'en Love with all its tender ties,

Hopes, joys and heart-felt sympathies,

When silent in the urn,

Too quickly from the soul will fade,

And vanish in oblivion's shade,

Ah, never to return!

We weep sincerely for awhile,
Then joyous as before we smile,
And mingle with the gay;
Bustle upon the stage of life,
Mixing in all its idle strife,

With pomp and vain display,

Forgetfulness! thy magic pow'r
Can solace bring in ev'ry hour,

And give serene repose;
To thee in ev'ry earthly grief,

In expectation of relief,

O'ershadow'd by thy downy wing, We feel not sorrow's poignant sting, Nor once perceive its dart;

Hope to the troubl'd soul returns, And gentle peace the while sojourns Within the tranquil heart.

Then in the airy future, we
Expect to find felicity,

And joys we ne'er shall taste;
While fancy in its blissful vales
The odours of delight inhales,
With flow'rs immortal grac'd.

Charm'd with its visionary scenes,
A mild tranquillity serenes

The spirit long oppress'd;

No painful thoughts conflicting rise, But ev'ry mental feeling lies

Compos'd in peaceful rest.

Thus on the staff of hope we lean,
Reluctant our fond hearts to wean
From the illusions vain,

Which flitting still before our view,
Are never near though we pursue
Till we are dust again.

Thus meekly bending at thy shrine, While poppy wreaths our temples twine,

Our vows we oft address;

And when afflicting troubles vex,

And anxious worldly cares perplex,

Seek thee, Forgetfulness!

ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

O THOU! that lov'st to keep thy state

Far from the noisy world's debate,
Remote from folly's idle strife,

And all the glitt'ring gaudes of life;
Queen of sad thoughts, with tearful eye,
That oft dost fold thine arms and sigh,
Who, with thy sister Silence, join'd
In pensive unison of mind,

Art musing found at midnight hour,
Within some solitary bow'r,
Exalting thy rapt soul from all

The troubles of this earthly Ball:

Who, in a sable stole array'd,
Art often found, where lowly laid,
Youth in its blooming pride declines,
And to the grave its hopes resigns;
As vi'lets droop, o'ercharg'd with rain,
And wither on their native plain.
Who, often clad in mourning weeds,
Dost stand where Recollection bleeds
In anguish, which no time can end,
Over the urn of some dear friend!
Who dost in cloisters dim appear,
Thy dark eye shining through a tear,
Scanning, in pensive mood the while,
Full many a monumental pile,

Where rest entomb'd the great and proud,
Their robe of honour now a shroud!

O thou! that shunn'st the haunt of Folly, Queen of sad thoughts, sad Melancholy, Come in thy robe of sombre hue,

Most like a mourning nymph to view,