A place of repose, when the spirit is faint,
And the heart wants to utter a passing complaint:
Of safety; for pure and serene be the air,
And nothing unkind or unholy be there!
In this sacred retreat I my cares would confide,
And there my half-forming opinions should hide;
If true, gather strength for the brightness of day--
If false, in the shade, unreprov'd, die away!
How fondly I nourish'd these hopes, but in vain!
The calm and the stillness I could not retain;
My Hour fled away, every wish unfulfill'd,
And warm'd not the Friendship Suspicion had chill'd!
XVII.
LINES
_Sent to a Brother on his leaving England_.
May 2, 1816.
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FANCIFUL BOUQUET.
--------
_Hopes_ all glowing, _Wishes_ rare,
_Blessings_ mixed with many a _Prayer_,
Flowers as yet beyond compare,
Though flourishing in northern air.
_Farewells_ twined with tender _Fears_,
_Golden day-dreams_, gemm'd with tears,
_Affections_ nurtur'd many years,
Before this perfect bloom appears.
_Thoughts_ of fondness and of pride,
_Love-vanities_ we need not hide;
_Heart-blossoms_, in its crimson dyed,
For you, are here together tied.
And yet they all appear too poor,
Though goodness can ensure no more;
Though monarchs, whom the world adore,
Would purchase such with all their store.
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