Laura Sophia Temple

Solitary Musings

Ye angry Winds on sweeping wing
That whistle on the snow-clad mountain,
Thou wizard pow'r whose iron wand
Locks up each wild and dancing fountain,
Again ye come with murd'rous haste;
I hear ye on the bleak-heath raving;
Again your icy fingers hide
The grass that o'er her tomb was waving.

At noon of Night, thou hollow gale!
How Fancy loves with thee to wander!
To seek the sad romantic spot,
And o'er the hallow'd dust to ponder!
Mute she surveys the humble sod
That wraps a form, how fondly cherish'd!
She hears the voice that Mem'ry loves,
She views the Rose so early perish'd.

Pure Tenant of the realms of light!
Dost thou e'er quit thy airy slumbers
To mark the sigh, the bitter tear,
The dreary hours affliction numbers:
The Hope that yet will faintly throb,
The trembling hope of joy to-morrow,
The swelling rage of passion's storm
The black and billowy clouds of sorrow?

The fears that look to worlds unknown,
The glances back to days of pleasure,
When joy lit up the golden hours
And wishes danc'd to boundless measure,
Or far remov'd from darkling cares,
No longer toss'd on Life's wide ocean,
Has Memory her tablets broke
And blotted out each past emotion?

Dost thou nor view the tearful eye,
Gazing sad on dim futurity,
Or mark the wretch whose joyless fate,
Rushes on to vast Eternity?
Oh! I will think thou hov'rest near,
Still round thy mortal orbit treading,
To watch o'er those who feebly grope;
Around thy Sainted influence spreading.

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