Poem by Robert Anderson

A Reflection

Estrang'd from all I once held dear,
Reflection turns to pleasures past;
And pond'ring on life's mad career,
At future days I shrink aghast.

A secret pang oft rends my breast,
Soft pity's tear could not remove;
It robs me of night's soothing rest,
And days of pain it makes me prove.

It made me soon a child of care,
And stole from me health's blooming rose;
But I this pang must silent bear,
Till death the painful scene shall close.

Returning seasons charm no more,
That erst this bosom fir'd with joy;
The smiles of hope can nought restore,
And but my fancied joys destroy.

I fondly gaze, nor vain my aim,
On nature's grand unerring plan;
And sighing, inwardly exclaim,
Alas! how thoughtless is frail man!

The wither'd flow'ret in the shade,
To me presents a hast'ning doom;--
A few short hours may see me laid
Unpitied, in the narrow tomb.

In youth we trifle time away,
On tempting pleasures, idly vain;
In manhood, join a world too gay,
And crush the joys we hope to gain.

Oh! when my latest hour draws near,
Then may I own the moments blest;
And, wearied with my wand'rings here,
Believe with truth, death's slumber's rest! 

1. Epitaph on Maria of the Cottage
2. Mad Margery
3. The Happy Family
4. Britannia’s Call
5. Jingle in the Glasses

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