When in my life's propitious morn
The sun of joy and hope once smiled,
Fair Poesy, of Pleasure born,
Each fancied sorrow oft beguiled.
But when the blast of real woe
Withered the brightness of my soul--
Bade me to dream of bliss no more,
And yet denied the Lethean bowl,
Did Poesy, like that bright star
That burns upon the brow of night,
Scatter misfortune's clouds afar,
And with her beauty glad my sight?
Ah, no! She flies the wretched breast,
To seek the gay and happy throng;
In mirth's soft bowers she loves to rest,
And speed the flying hours along.
Where fountains play, and flowrets bloom,
And where no thoughts of care intrude,
To beauty's halls the Muse has flown,
And left me to my solitude.
But lo! a fairer form appears,
On heavenly pinions hovering nigh;
She bids me dry repining tears,
And points me to her native sky.
She tells me of repose and peace
Which to the pure in heart are given,
And bids my sorrowing bosom cease
To mourn for those who're blest in heaven.
Religion! on thy brow doth glow
The rainbow hues of hope and joy;
That perfect peace thou canst bestow,
Which nothing earthly can destroy.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.