Where Bliss’s stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee
Suspense’s thorns, Suspicion’s stings;
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That’s sweet—e’en when we sigh, “Woe’s me!”
STANZAS
ON THE THREATENED INVASION 1803.
Our bosoms we’ll bare for the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,