MY Damon was the first to wake
The gentle flame that cannot die;
My Damon is the last to
The faithful bosoms softest sigh:
The life between is nothing worth,
O cast it from thy thought away!
of the day that gave it birth,
And this its sweet returning day.
Buried be all that has been done,
Or say that naught is done amiss;
For who the dangerous
path can shun
In such bewildering world as this?
But love can every fault forgive,
Or with a tender look
And now let naught in memory live
But that we meet, and that we love.
WEVE trod the maze of error round,
Long wandering in the winding glade;
And now the torch
of truth is found,
It only shows us where we strayed:
By long experience taught, we know
judge of friends and foes;
Can all the worth of these allow,
And all the faults discern in those.
Now, tis our boast that we can quell
The wildest passions in their rage,
Can their destructive
And their impetuous wrath assuage.
Ah, Virtue ! dost thou arm when now
This bold rebellious
race are fled?
When all these tyrants rest, and thou
Art warring with the mighty dead?
THE ring, so worn as you behold,
So thin, so pale, is yet of gold:
The passion such it was to
Worn with lifes care, love yet was love.
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