12
poems.
Oh, no, thy Maker's sacred power,
My humble offering wrought,
And love for thy Creator's works
More reverence should have taught.
My humble offering wrought,
And love for thy Creator's works
More reverence should have taught.
I never gaze upon a flower,
The smallest that I see,
But seems to whisper to my heart
I came from Deity.
The smallest that I see,
But seems to whisper to my heart
I came from Deity.
SOLILOQUY ON DREAMS.
'T was but a dream;
I would there were no dreams, for 't is painful
When awaked, to find them mere delusion,
After the senses have been revelling
In elysian scenes, where all seemed wrapt in
Sweet reality, a happy prelude
To more perfect bliss.
Who hath not dreamed?
And when the witching spell was broke that
Bound the soul in its enchanting fetters
Sighed, nay, almost wept to find what looked so
Real, was but illusion, cheating the
Mind's bright vision.
I would there were no dreams, for 't is painful
When awaked, to find them mere delusion,
After the senses have been revelling
In elysian scenes, where all seemed wrapt in
Sweet reality, a happy prelude
To more perfect bliss.
Who hath not dreamed?
And when the witching spell was broke that
Bound the soul in its enchanting fetters
Sighed, nay, almost wept to find what looked so
Real, was but illusion, cheating the
Mind's bright vision.
