Page:The Domestic Affections, and Other Poems.pdf/90



Who sought the field, who struck the lyre, With all ambition's kindling fire!

Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe. Soft odours on this desert-air; Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath, And fringe these tow'rs with garlands fair!

Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom, Unheeded on this ivy'd wall! Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall!

Thus, round Misfortune's holy head, Would Pity wreaths of honor spread; Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, She seeks despair, with heart-reviving smile!