TO ELIZA.
Come, my Eliza, grace the sylvan scene,
Ah! fly, and leave the careful seats of woe;
No sorrows here intrude, all calm, serene,
Our happy hours in sweet contentment flow;
Bring guileless pleasures each succeeding day,
Then clap their joyous wings, and quickly haste away.
O’er neighbouring fields, unlike our smiling plain,
Fell tyranny his iron rod extends:
There furious war and devastation reign,
And pity bids us weep our slaughter’d friends
Yet cannot sympathy our peace molest,
We grow by sad comparison more blest.
O come, the time prophetic bards foretold,
When tyranny, and war shall be no more;
When circling years, restore the age of gold,
And every sorrow, want, and pain are o’er;
When heaven-born love, and peace shall reign again,
To bless an unambitious gentle race of men.
MATILDA.
Cedar Grove, 1776.
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.