[THIS TO THEE, LUCY.]
When like the ripples of some troubled lake,
Each year shall hasten to its lingering end,
That chord in Memory's sweet-toned harp awake,
Which thrills responsive to the name of Friend!
And oh! whate'er shall be thy future lot,
In sunshine or in shade, forget me not!
Whether thou dwellest in the busy mart
Ceaseless caressed by pride, and pomp and power,
Or circlest the ambition of thy heart
Within the lowly cot and rustic bower,
'The world forgetting, by the world forgot,'
Still, still my prayer shall be, 'Forget me not!'
[NATURE'S MONITIONS.]
AN EXTRACT.
Oh! who hath not, in melancholy mood,
Musing at eve in some sequestered wood,
Or where the torrent's foaming waters pour,
Or ocean's billows murmur on the shore;
Oh! who hath not in such a moment gazed,
As heaven's bright hosts in cloudless glory blazed,
And felt a sadness steal upon his heart,
To think that he with this fair scene must part!
That while those billows heave, those waters flow,
Those garnished skies refulgent still shall glow,
He, that once watched them, will have passed away,
His name forgot, his ashes blent with clay;
Unlike those glittering orbs, those quenchless fires,
Ordained to roll till Time itself expires.