SONG.
| This is no "dark and dreary world," 'Tis full of life and beauty— Yet not to him, all "primrose path" Who's in the way of duty— And yet, to cheer him on the road, The way-side flower is springing, While to the charms of Nature's day The wild-bird's sweetly singing. There is a bliss in Virtue's path Above all sensual thinking— Would he might prove it, he who hath "Joy"—Is there "joy in drinking?" Believe it not—for who hath wo? Oh, who hath saddest "sorrow?" "Contentions," "wounds," night-revels show, That blush to face the morrow. "The wine is red," but "look not thou Upon it;" false and glowing, "'Twill sting thee like a serpent's tooth," While brightly it is flowing. Eschew the joys of sense; they are Unto my sober thinking, But glozing o'er the black despair, The deep, deep wo of drinking. Look ye around where frowns "the curse"— 'Tis but disguised blessing; The heart that trusts the living God, Feels not its "doom" oppressing. Thine, thine the heart, and thine the doom, When done this earth's probation, To realms of endless light and joy A sure and bright translation. Yet, e'en "the light that's now in thee," (Ah! 'tis no idle thinking,) Will darken'd by "a demon" be, If thou hast "joy in drinking." |
M. M.
LINES
To Miss M——t W——s, of P. Edward.
| From her own garden Nature chose, In all its blooming pride the Rose, And from the feathered race the Dove: Then Margaret, on thy cheek she threw The blushing flower's most beauteous hue, And formed thy temper from the bird of love! Oh! what delight it is to trace The modest sweetness of thy face— Thy simple elegance and ease— Thy smile, disclosing orient pearl— Thy locks, profuse of many a curl— And hear thy gentle voice, that never fails to please! |