Care

Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours

And though his path through thorns and roughness lay,

Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers;

Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,

The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose;

So have l sought thy flowers, fair poesy

So charmed my way with friendship and the muse.

But darker now grows life's unhappy day,

Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come:

Her pencil sickening fancy throws away

And weary hope reclines upon the tomb;

And points my wishes to that tranquil shore

Where the pale spectre care pursues no more.