« ZurückWeiter »
Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay`;
And those who prize the paultry things • More trifling ftill than they.
And what is Friendship but a name,
A fhade that follows wealth or fame,
And Love is ftill an emptier found,
For fhame, fond youth! thy forrows hush,
• No, never from this hour to part; tort! • We'll live and love so true,
The figh that rends thy conftant heart • Shall break thy Edwin's too!'
BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESO
NCE, I remember well the day,...
Had loft their freshest hues;
When every flower on every hill,
In every vale, had drank it's fill
In short, 'twas that sweet season's prime,
'Twas then, befide a green-wood shade,
So wond'rous bright the day.
And now my eyes with transport rove
Unbroken by a cloud!