'Tis hope that raises us to heaven,
While pure affection breathes no other love,
And makes to those to whom it's given
A something like a paradise above.

Alas! for me no earthly paradise awaits;
No true affection nor no friendly tear;
Spurn'd at by _friends_, and scorned at by the _great_;
And all that poverty can bring is here.

Then hail thou grateful visitant, oh death,
And stop the troubled ocean of my breast:
Lull the rude waves; nor let my parting breath
E'er cause a sigh, or break one moment's rest.

Then when my clay-cold form shall bid adieu,
Hid in its parent's bosom, kindred earth,
Let not the errors e'er appear in view,
But turn from them, and only speak his worth.


J.A.

* * * * *




THE SKETCH BOOK.