Он could my Mind, unfolded in my page, There as it glow'd, with noblest frenzy fraught, To Virtue wake the pulses of the heart, And bid the tear of emulation start! Oh could it still, thro' each succeeding year, My life, my manners, and my name endear; Revive but once a generous wish supprest, Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest; In one good deed a fleeting hour employ, Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy; Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere, Tho' short their date, as his who trac'd them here. |