Oh could my Mind, unfolded in my page,Enlighten climes and mould a future age;There as it glow’d, with noblest frenzy fraught,Dispense the treasures of exalted thought;To Virtue wake the pulses of the heart,And bid the tear of emulation start!Oh could it still, thro’ each succeeding year,My life, my manners, and my name endear;And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust,Still hold communion with the wise and just!—Yet should this Verse, my leisure’s best resource,When thro’ the world it steals its secret course,Revive but once a generous wish supprest,Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest;In one good deed a fleeting hour employ,Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy;Blest were my lines, tho’ limited their sphere,Tho’ short their date, as his who trac’d them here.ContentsThe Pleasures of MemoryEpistle to a FriendOde to SuperstitionWritten to be spoken in a TheatreTo——The SailorTo an old OakFrom EuripidesTo Two SistersWritten at MidnightOn a TearTo a Voice that had been lostFrom a Greek Epigram.To the TorsoTo——Written in a Sick ChamberTo a Friend on his MarriageThe Alps at Day-breakImitation of an Italian SonnetOn——asleep.To the youngest Daughter of Lady **An Epitaph on a Robin-RedbreastA WishAn Italian SongTo the GnatAn Inscription in the CrimeaCaptivityA CharacterWritten in the Highlands of ScotlandA FarewellTo the ButterflyWritten in Westminster AbbeyThe Voyage of Columbus
Oh could my Mind, unfolded in my page,Enlighten climes and mould a future age;There as it glow’d, with noblest frenzy fraught,Dispense the treasures of exalted thought;To Virtue wake the pulses of the heart,And bid the tear of emulation start!Oh could it still, thro’ each succeeding year,My life, my manners, and my name endear;And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust,Still hold communion with the wise and just!—Yet should this Verse, my leisure’s best resource,When thro’ the world it steals its secret course,Revive but once a generous wish supprest,Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest;In one good deed a fleeting hour employ,Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy;Blest were my lines, tho’ limited their sphere,Tho’ short their date, as his who trac’d them here.