Lines

Lines

I

The menial through that crowds the Indian shore,

Braves the fierce gale to try their helpless oar,

From such men, tis true, muse disdains renown.

Thou must be thy prey when to beaty 's own.

II

Go, fortunate lines! and tell the maid

That tis for her I die! 

O! that some tears when I am dead,

Descending from that lovely eye,

May hallow my untimely bier

And soothe my spirit lingering there!

III

I met thee, tears came in my eye,

Oh! they were soothing tears.

The tribute of sad memory,

Dear Friend! to parted years!

Poem no: 16