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For I to ev'ry joy am dead, With me the nymph, sweet pleasure! dies,And hope and happiness have fled To seek their distant native skies.
"Tis thine, whom hope once more shall cheer, To bid thy harp symphonious ringWith rapturous music on the ear; And love and beauty's praise to sing.
'Tis mine to bid each trembling wire, Reverb'rate to the notes of woe,And wake to sadder tones the lyre, That even yet were heard to flow.
While list'ning to its dying falls, Soothing the last dread parting pain,My soul shall burst its prison-walls, And soar to heav'n upon the strain.
EDWIN'S WISH.
Give me, kind Heav'n! I ask no more, In some sequester'd grove,A cottage neat, before whose door Meandering streamlets rove;
