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To wet thy bosom with my guilty tears ;
Oh-agony-remorse! Forgive wild words,
'Tis thou alone, sweet woman, can control
An erring spirit wildered by distress.

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Oppressed with grief, oppressed with car
A burden more than I can bear,

I sit me down and sigh ;
O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,

To wretches such as I !
Dim backward as I cast my view,

What sick’ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear !
Still caring, despairing,
Must be


bitter doom ; My woes here shall close ne'er,

But with the closing tomb !

Happy ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,

No other view regard !
Even when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,

They bring their own reward :
Whilst I, a hope-abandoned wight,

Unfitted with an aim,
Meet every sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same.
You bustling, and justling,

Forget each grief and pain;
I listless, yet restless,

Find every prospect vain.

How blest the solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gathered fruits,

Beside his crystal well!
Or, haply, to his evening thought,

By unfrequented stream,

ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream!

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While praising, and raising

His thoughts to heaven on high,
As wandering, meandering,

He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit placed
Where never human footstep traced,

Less fit to play the part ;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop and just to move,

With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,

Which I too keenly taste,
The solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest !
He needs not, he beeds not,

Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must cry here,

At perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable early days,
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,

To care, to guilt unknown !
How ill exchanged for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,

Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,

Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is


The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage !
The fears all, the tears all,

Of dim-declining age !



Oh! child of grief, why weepest thou ?
Why droops thy sad and mournful brow?
Why is thy look so like despair ?
What deep sad sorrow lingers there?

Thou mournest perhaps for some one gone,
A friend, a wife, a little one ;
Yet mourn not, for thou hast above
A friend in God, and God is love.'

Was it remorse that laid thee low ?
Is it for sin thou mournest so ?

Surely thou bearest a heavy grief,
Yet, mourner, there is still relief.

There's One on high can pardon give

his life that thou may'st live; Seek, then, for comfort from above, Thy friend is God, and God is love.'

Has cold unkindness wounded thee ?
Does thy loved friend now from thee flee?
( turn thy thoughts from earth to heaven,
Where no such cruel wounds are given.

In all the varying scenes of woe,
The lot of fallen man below,
Still lift thy tearful eye above,
And hope in God, for God is love.'

Sweet is the thought-time flies apace,
This earth is not our resting place :
And sweet the promise of the Lord,
To all who love his name and word.

Then, weeping pilgrim, dry thy tears ;
Comfort on every side appears ;

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