And, while they linger yet another hour
  On life’s extended, tempest-beaten, strand,
Waiting the gale that shall convey them o’er,
  To hail their Lycid in a happier land,

Oh! may religion lull each sigh to rest,
  Teach them a God, in mercy rob’d, to praise,
To know that ev’ry act of his is best,
  And, tho’ mysterious, still to prize his ways!

EPIGRAM

ON THE AUTHOR AND ELIZA FREQUENTLY DIFFERING
IN OPINION.

To such extremes were I and Bet
  Perpetually driven,
We quarrell’d every time we met,
  To kiss, and be forgiven.

LINES

TO MY MOTHER,

On her attaining her 70th Year.

Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace
Each line of that long-lov’d, accustom’d, face,
Where Time, as if enchanted, and imprest
With all the virtues of thy peaceful breast,
Tho’ sev’nty varied years have roll’d away,
Still loves to linger, and, with soft decay,
Permits thy cheek to wear a healthy bloom,
In all the grace of age, without its gloom.

So on some sacred temple’s mossy walls,
With feath’ry force, the snow of winter falls! 
Yes, venerable parent! may I long
Thus happy hail thee with an annual song. 
Till, having clos’d thine eyes in such soft rest
As infants feel when to the bosom prest,
Angels shall bear thy spotless soul away
To realms of pure delight and endless day!

LINES TO SELINA

’Twas when the leaves were yellow turn’d,
  Selina, with the gentlest sigh,
Exclaim’d, “For you I long have burn’d,
  For you alone, my love!  I’ll die.”

Unthinking youth!  I thought her true,
  And, when the trees grew white with snow,
The wint’ry wind with music blew,
  So did her love upon me grow.

The Spring had scarce unlock’d her store,
  When lo! in much ungentle strain,
She bade me think of her no more,
  She bade me never love again.

Then did my heart at once reply,
  “If you are false, who can be true? 
There’s nothing here deserves a sigh,
  Take this, the last, ’tis heav’d for you.”

Ah! fickle fair! amid the scene
  That giddy pleasure may prepare,
A pensive thought shall intervene,
  And touch your wand’ring heart with care.

And when, alone, at eve you rove,
  Where arm in arm we oft have mov’d,
Each Zephyr in the well-known grove
  Shall whisper that we once have lov’d.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE,

AT DRONNINGAARD, NEAR COPENHAGEN.

Delicious gloom! asylum of repose! 
  Within your verdant shades, your tranquil bound,
A wretched fugitive[A], oppress’d by woes,
  The balm of peace, that long had left him, found.