Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/90

90 

Think'st thou the fountain made to turn Through marble vase, or fretted urn Affords a sweeter draught Than that which in its native sphere Perennial, undisturb'd, and clear Flows, the lone traveller's thirst to cheer And wake his grateful thought?—

Think'st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling's pride, and miser's gold Obtains a richer prize Than he, who in his cot at rest Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, And bears the earnest in his breast Of treasure in the skies?—

 

When shall scenes of other days Bright with Hope's unclouded rays, Rising, meet us, and restore Pleasures now possess'd no more?— When, those joys with backward flight, Thronging, press upon our sight?— When, from cold oblivion's bourne Our long-buried hours return?—

When the lamp of life is broke, When its ray is quench'd in smoke, When the dreams of hope are fled, When the beating pulse is dead, 