SONG.
Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,
And as free from a pang as they seem to you now,
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of tonight,
Will return with tomorrow to brighten my brow.
No, Life is a waste of wearisome flowers,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile;