Would ever tempt thy smiling surface more?
Long toss’d on stormy seas of hopes and fears,
How willingly at last my wearied soul
Would seek a shelter in forgetfulness!
Oh! bland Forgetfulness, Love’s sweetest balm,
Through all my veins thy pow’rs infuse; close up
Each avenue to Love; purge off the lime
That clogs his spirit, which fain would wing its flight
To Sense, to Reason, Liberty and Peace.
NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.