Page:The Domestic Affections, and Other Poems.pdf/53



awful sage! with locks of snow, With clouded mien and pensive brow; Whose drooping form is bent with years, Whose aged eye is dim with tears; I court thee not, thou guide severe! Ah! still avert thy frown austere! For, oh! as winter blights the flow'rs, Despoils the woodlands and the bow'rs; So can thy chilling pow'r destroy The dream of hope, the dream of joy. Oh! let me ever fondly stray, Thro' Fancy's bow'rs, thro' Fancy's way; And if her fairy-visions bright, Be but illusions of delight, Oh! let me, still deceiv'd, be blest, Lull'd, by her magic-song, to rest!