To the Editors of the Massachusetts Magazine.
Gentlemen,
The following imperfect Lines are with diffidence offered to your attention-they arose from the heart-and if you consider them worthy an appearance in your useful Miscellany, the imagination of those who can feel will easily supply the deficient stanzas; and the misfortunes of an individual may possibly excite regret and compassion, even in the happy few whom destiny has placed upon “a bed of roses.”
CONSTANTIA.
INVOCATION TO HOPE.
Soother of life I by whose delusive charm,
This feeling heart resists the pointed woe;
Whose magic power with fancy’d joys can warm,
And wipe the tear which anguish taught to flow.
If thro the varied griefs my youth has known,
No charm but thine could raise my votive eye,
O leave me not now ev’ry blessing flown;
Whilst my sad bosom heaves the lengthen’d sigh.
The grated prison, and the love-form’d bower,
The wretch whom disappointment wastes away,
The frugal hut, the gilded dome of power,
Joy in thy smile, and court thy equal sway.
By thee, the friendless sufferer learns to bear,
By thee, the patient heart forgets its woe,
Thou mak’st misfortune’s iron aspect fair,
And e’en the frozen cheek of mis’ry glow.
Leave me no more, as on that fated morn,
When my rash soul the impious deed design’d,
And when, unconscious of thy blest return,
The foe, Despair, usurp’d my tortur’d mind.
But yet, bright goddess with deceptive smile,
Come, and a host of fictions in thy train,
With dreams of peace my wearied heart beguile,
And sink in fancy’d bliss the real pain.
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