by Elizabeth Bentley
THO' yet the clouds portentous low'r,
The winds have hush'd their concert rude;
Well suits the calm, the silent show'r,
With Meditation's pensive mood.
Now Memory, with her magic spell,
Long buried joys revives to thought,
And loves with fond regret to dwell,
On woes that Time and Death have wrought:
To trace those hours, for ever fled,
When Friendship's voice, as angels kind,
Soft o'er the soul her influence shed,
To virtue soothed or fired the mind.
But Hope her fairy touch applies,
Darting with yet more powerful hand,
(While Fear with each grim fantom flies)
She breaks the wizard Memory's wand.
And see, thro' her perspective glass,
What visions charm th' enraptured sight,
What throngs of future pleasures pass,
In fancied radiance beaming bright.
These, these, she cries, are scenes to come.
If not on earth's unpleasing waste,
The soul in her celestial home,
These pure, unmingled joys shall taste.
Then come, bright Hope, tho' clouds may low'r,
Friend of the Muse, to thee 'tis giv'n,
To gild with smiles the present hour,
To paint the future with the hues of heav'n.
Last updated January 14, 2019