[Lines]
On the death of a young lady of Wilmington.
Chill frost will nip the fairest flower;
The sweetest dream is soonest pass’d;
The brightest morning in an hour,
May be with storm clouds overcast.
So Josephine in early bloom,
Was blighted by death’s cruel blast,
While weeping round her early tomb,
We joy to know, she is not lost.
Fond mother, dry that tearful tide,
Your child will not return, you know:
She’s waiting on the other side
And where she is, you too may go.
[Youthful Reminiscences.]
Their schoolboy days have form’d a theme,
For nearly all the bards I know,
But mine are like a fading dream
Which happen’d three score years ago.
My memory is not the best,
While some things I would fain forget
Come like an uninvited guest,
And often cause me much regret.
I see the ghosts of murdered hours,
As they flit past in countless throngs,
They taunt me with their meager powers,
And ridicule my senseless songs.
’Tis useless now to speculate,
Or grieve o’er that which might have been,
My failures though they have been great,
Are not the greatest I have seen.