Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh,
And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.

Ah! may each future suff'rer, hov'ring near,
Rais'd by thy genial wave, delighted view
Returning joy and health, supremely dear,
Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu!




A SONG.


These shades were made for Love alone,--
Here only smiles and kisses sweet
Shall play around his flow'ry throne,
And doves shall sentinel the seat.

Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day;
It bids us to his bow'r repair:--
"But what will little Cupid say?"--
"Say! sweet?--why, give a welcome there."

There not a tell-tale beam shall peep
Upon thy beauty's rich display,--
There not a breeze shall dare to sweep
The leaves, to whisper what we say.