Page:The Sceptic.pdf/5

4

Still with fond care supports thy languid head, And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.

But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above, Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to love? To nurse such feelings as delight to rest, Within that hallow'd shrine—a parent's breast, To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, On one frail idol—destined but to die; Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, Where sever'd souls, made perfect, re-unite? Then tremble! cling to every passing joy, Twined with the life a moment may destroy! If there be sorrow in a parting tear, Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine car! If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought—'tis gone!

Go! to a voice such magic influence give, Thou canst not lose its melody, and live; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, And let a glance the springs of thought control; Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, Lean on the willow, idolize the dust! Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, Think on that dread "for ever"—and despair!

And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs, To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds.