Think'st thou the fountain made to turn
Through marble vase, or fretted urn
Affords a sweeter draught
Than that which in its native sphere
Perennial, undisturb'd, and clear
Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer
And wake his grateful thought?—
Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold
The worldling's pride, and miser's gold
Obtains a richer prize
Than he, who in his cot at rest
Finds heavenly peace a willing guest,
And bears the earnest in his breast
Of treasure in the skies?—
MEMORY AND CONSCIENCE.
When shall scenes of other days
Bright with Hope's unclouded rays,
Rising, meet us, and restore
Pleasures now possess'd no more?—
When, those joys with backward flight,
Thronging, press upon our sight?—
When, from cold oblivion's bourne
Our long-buried hours return?—
When the lamp of life is broke,
When its ray is quench'd in smoke,
When the dreams of hope are fled,
When the beating pulse is dead,
